Not the bailiffs?
Arabella, don't tell me it's the bailiffs again!" Mr.Mortimer drew back as though a snake lay coiled on the caravan steps.
"It's not the bailiffs, Stanislas; it's the orphans." "But--but, my sweet, there must be some mistake.

I--er--actually, of course, I have nothing to do with any orphans whatsoever." "Oh, yes, you have," his wife assured him composedly.

"They are inside here, with a yellow dog." While Mr.Mortimer yet reeled under this news the door of the courtyard rattled and creaked open in the darkness.

A lantern showed in the opening, and the bearer of it, catching sight of the lit caravan, approached with quick, determined strides.
"Can you inform me," asked a high clerical voice, "where I can find Mr.
Christopher Hucks ?" The stranger held his lantern high, so that its ray fell on his face, and with that Mr.Mortimer groaned and collapsed upon the lowest step, where mercifully his wife's ample shadow spread an aegis over him.
"Mr.Hucks, sir ?" Mrs.Mortimer answered the challenge.

"I saw him, not twenty minutes ago, step into his private office there to the left, and by the light in the window he's there yet." "But who is it ?" she asked, as the stranger, swinging his lantern, marched straight up to Mr.Hucks's door.
"Good Lord, it's the man himself--Glasson! And he's come for his orphans." "He shan't have 'em, then," said Mrs.Mortimer..