As Mr. Harmon entered the room, he saw a man, tall, square-shouldered, roughly dressed, standing with his back to the door. The stranger was so busy in admiring contemplation of a fine full-length oil-painting of the railroad magnate's daughter which adorned the mantelpiece that he did not hear any one enter. Mr. Harmon coughed, and the man turned quickly. It was Armitage.
The light in the room was not good, and for a moment Mr. Harmon could not distinguish his caller's features. At first he was in doubt as to his identity.
"You wished to see me, Sir," he began. "You are Mr.—Mr.——?"
"Jack Armitage is my name," the other replied carelessly. Quickly he added: "I did not seek this interview, Mr. Harmon. You wrote asking me to call."
Mr. Harmon advanced cordially and extended his hand.
"To be sure—to be sure. Sit down, Mr. Armitage. You happen to have called on a very busy day. We're having some friends to see us."
Despite his efforts to appear cordial, there was a certain embarrassment in the magnate's manner which his visitor was not slow to observe.
"So I noticed," he replied dryly. "The policeman outside didn't size me up as being a friend of yours, so he promptly ran me in. I insisted that you had asked me to call and he let me go. Then your cockney butler took me for a suspicious character, and after letting me enter, under protest, through the tradesmen's entrance, he set the footman to watch me while he went to find you up-stairs."
Mr. Harmon laughed.
"Servants judge only by appearances," he said. "If you'd driven up in a carriage and pair, they'd have received you with every mark of honor. I'm sorry if they hurt your feelings."