dining out."

Livingstone glanced at the clock. It was half-past eight. He had had no
idea it was so late. He had forgotten how late it was when he left his
office, and the walk through the snow had been slow. He was hopelessly
in the wrong.

Just then there was a scurry in the hall outside and the squeak of
childish voices. James coughed and turned quickly towards the door.

Livingstone wanted an outlet.

"What is that?" he asked, sharply.

James cleared his throat nervously. The squeak came again--this time
almost a squeal.

"Whose children are those?" demanded Livingstone.

"Ahem! I thinks they's the laundress's, sir. They just came around this
evening--"

Livingstone cut him short.

"Well! I--!" He was never nearer an outbreak, but he controlled himself.

"Go down and send them and her off immediately; and you--" He paused,
closed his lips firmly, and changed his speech. "I wish some dinner," he
said coldly.