"He is very ill, sir," I replied, "and cannot be seen."
"I must see him, sick or well." His manner was excited.
"Impossible, sir."
The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. I
paused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons,
while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor.
"I wish to see Mr. W----." It was the voice of a man.
"He is sick," the servant replied.
"Give him my name--Mr. Walton--and say that I must see him for just
a moment." And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered
the parlor.
"Mr. Arnold!" he ejaculated, in evident surprise.
"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rude
way, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. "A nice
business, I must confess!"
"Have you seen Mr. W.----?" was inquired.
"No. They say he's sick."
There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this.
"Gentlemen," said I, stung into indignant courage, "this is an
outrage! What do you mean by it?"
"We wish to see your father," said the last comer, his manner
changing, and his voice respectful.
"You have both been told," was my firm reply, "that my father is too
ill to be seen."
"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store," said the
first visitor, "and I hardly think his illness has progressed so
rapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous.
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