In the hall, through an open door, he saw Councillor Cotterill standing against the dining-room mantelpiece.
When Cotterill caught sight of Denry he straightened himself into a certain uneasy perkiness.
"Young man," he said in a counterfeit of his old patronising tone, "come in here. You may as well hear about it. You're a friend of ours. Come in and shut the door."
Nellie was not in view.
Denry went in and shut the door.
"Sit down," said Cotterill.
And it was just as if he had said: "Now, you're a fairly bright sort of youth, and you haven't done so badly in life; and as a reward I mean to admit you to the privilege of hearing about our ill-luck, which for some mysterious reason reflects more credit on me than your good luck reflects on you, young man."
And he stroked his straggling grey beard.
"I'm going to file my petition to-morrow," said he, and gave a short laugh.
"Really!" said Denry, who could think of nothing else to say. His name was not Capron-Smith.