He had not waited a minute in an untidy tobacco-reeking study, into which he had been informally and rather suspiciously shown, when a gentleman came hurrying in with an air of effusive cordiality which took him completely by surprise.
“Mr Balm?” said the gentleman. “This is kind of you—this is more than kind. To come in person to answer my appeal? I had not expected such distinction, such consideration, and it makes me proud. Pray take a chair, sir, and let us discuss this matter.”
Gilead, immensely perplexed, bowed and seated himself. He saw before him a fluffy fiery little man, wearing spectacles like burning glasses, and clad in a blazing rhubarb tweed, with knickerbockers and bright brown shoes. He was snappy in his movements, jerky in his speech, and, in disposition, he alternated, it seemed, between white heats of enthusiasm and dead ashes of depression.
“Your Agency, sir,” he said, “justifies its title to being the most prompt and princely institution of its kind. I am favoured in a visit from its founder.”
“Its representative,” corrected Gilead.
Mr Brown raised his hands and eyes with an air of polite deprecation.
“True,” he said; “we know your humour and respect it, Mr Balm. I say no more. I am completely dumb.”
“Well,” said Gilead, a little chilly: “as to the purpose of my visit, sir, I was led to suppose that the—the form of appeal somewhat lacked your sanction.”
“Not at all,” said Mr Brown, with a surprised look. “How could you have gathered that impression when I dictated its terms myself?”
“O! I didn’t know,” said the visitor. “I was misenlightened, no doubt—made the victim very possibly of a trifling hoax.” He smiled. “Then the little lady’s name was an intentional mask?”