"Maybe, George," she replied, waving him back, "but you've got to stay
down here. If the man I am going to see thought I was frightened of him
I wouldn't have a chance. If I am not down in half an hour you can try
number 18C."

The chauffeur resumed his place on the driving-seat of the car. Pamela,
heartily disliking her surroundings, was escorted by a shabby porter to
a shabbier lift.

"You'll find Mr. Joseph in," the lift boy assured her with a grin.

Pamela found the number at the end of an unswept stone passage. At her
third summons the door was cautiously opened by a large,
repulsive-looking woman, with a mass of peroxidised hair. She stared at
her visitor first in amazement, then in rapidly gathering resentment.

"Mr. Joseph is at home," she admitted truculently, in response to
Pamela's inquiry. "What might you be wanting with him?"

"If you will be so good as to let me in I will explain to Mr. Joseph,"
Pamela replied.

The woman seemed on the point of slamming the door. Suddenly there was
a voice from behind her shoulder. Joseph appeared--not the smiling,
joyous Joseph of Henry's but a sullen-looking negro, dressed in shirt
and trousers only, with a heavy under-lip and frowning forehead.

"Let the lady pass and get into the kitchen, Nora," he ordered, "Come
this way, mam."