"Was that you ringing? What do you want?"
"Yes, it was I who rang. I trust you'll excuse the lateness of my call. It's imperative for me to see you."
"Who are you? And what do you want to see me about?"
"My name is Blake. Blake of the _Daily Dial_. It is a personal matter."
"Don't know you. Don't know any Blake. Don't read the _Dial_. What is the personal matter?"
"For God's sake, sir, let me speak with you! It's a matter of life and death. Don't deny me, sir. Hear me first."
The little old man closed the door a couple of inches.
"Help, sir. Only a word of sympathy. I've a dying child----"
"It will be too late then. I implore you to listen to me for only a few moments. I've been waiting two hours upon the sidewalk for you to return, and it's too late for me to go elsewhere."
The door opened sufficiently for the old man to thrust his face close to the crack and inspect his visitor from head to heels. Evidently McCartney's appearance and the manner of his speech had made an impression which was now struggling with prudence and common sense. The deacon, moreover, had a reputation to support. It would not do to turn an applicant away who might be in dire extremity--and who might go elsewhere and carry the tale with him.
"Won't a bed ticket do you, eh? And come in the morning?"
McCartney saw the vacillation in the other's mind.
"I'm sorry, but I must see you now, if at all. To-morrow might be too late."
The owner of the house closed the door, unslipped the chain and retreated inside the hall to the foot of the stairs, leaving the way free for his visitor to follow. McCartney entered, hat in hand, and shut the door behind him, catching at a glance the austerity of the furniture and walls. To him every inch of the Brussels carpet, the ponderous, polished walnut hatrack, the massive blue china stand with its lonely umbrella and stout bamboo cane, and the heavily framed oil copy of St. John spoke eloquently.
"I must ask your pardon again, sir, for disturbing you. But a man of your character, as you have no doubt discovered, must suffer for the sake of his reputation. I----"
McCartney swayed and seized a yellow-plush _portière_ for support. In a moment he had regained control of himself--apparently.