“Come in.”
A clerk entered.
“There’s a party downstairs wants to see you, sir. Roughish looking customer too.”
“Is he sober?”
“I think so, sir. At least he seems pretty steady on his pins.”
“Name?”
“Bexley. Jim Bexley. Said you knew him, sir, and would be sure to see him.”
“Right. Show him up when I ring, not before.”
When the clerk had gone out Warren replaced the portrait in the drawer, even as we saw him do on a former occasion. He was in no hurry to interview his caller, on the contrary he sat, thinking profoundly, for quite a while. Then he banged on his handbell.
There was a creaking of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs, and the clerk reappeared, ushering in the visitor. Even as the clerk had said he was a roughish looking customer, and he was sober. Him we have seen before, for it was no less a personage than our old friend Bully Rawson.