In one of these dim, uninviting cells sat a gentleman, apparently quite at ease, his employment at the moment the scene draws back and reveals him to view being the leisurely perusal of the Times; a man of perhaps the same age as Captain Desfrayne—a pleasant, grave-looking gentleman, with kindly dark eyes, a carefully trimmed dark-brown beard, a pale complexion, and a symmetrical figure.
One of the melancholy walled-in youths suddenly appeared to disturb the half-dreamy studies of this serene personage.
Throwing open the door, he announced:
“Captain Desfrayne.”
The captain walked in, and the door was shut.
The occupant of the apartment had risen as the youth ushered in the visitor, and advanced the few steps the limited space permitted, smiling with a peculiarly winning expression.
“Mr. Amberley?” questioned Captain Desfrayne.
“I have called,” he went on, as the owner of that name bowed assentingly, “in obedience to a letter received by me from Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner.”
He threw upon the table the letter he had shown to his mother, and then seated himself, as Mr. Amberley signed for him to do.
Mr. Amberley, in spite of the latent smile in his dark eyes, seemed to be a man inclined to let other people save him the trouble of talking if they felt so disposed. He took up the letter, extracted it from its envelope, and unfolded it.