"Yes."
"Mr. Arthur Herbert Blake?" persisted the other, with emphasis on the middle name.
"That is my full name," Blake answered simply, adding, as he remembered his manners; "but won't you sit down, first, please?"
The man advanced with a curious sideways motion like a crab and took a seat on the edge of the sofa. He put his hat on the floor at his feet, but still kept the bag in his hand.
"I come to you from a well-wisher," he went on in oily tones, without lifting his eyes. Blake, in his mind, ran quickly over all the people he knew in New York who might possibly have sent such a man, while waiting for him to supply the name. But the man had come to a full stop and was waiting too.
"A well-wisher of mine?" repeated Blake, not knowing quite what else to say.
"Just so," replied the other, still with his eyes on the floor. "A well-wisher of yours."
"A man or—" he felt himself blushing, "or a woman?"
"That," said the man shortly, "I cannot tell you."
"You can't tell me!" exclaimed the other, wondering what was coming next, and who in the world this mysterious well-wisher could be who sent so discreet and mysterious a messenger.