"If I can just go now, please?" Chris asked politely but firmly. "It's been very interesting, but I—"
His throat tightened up again and he made a helpless gesture with his hand, and looking toward the window, wondered if he could jump out into the flower beds and be off. Mr. Wicker's voice, soft but with such authority that one did not question it, came again, and it had a healing in its sound.
"Sit down, Christopher my lad," he said, and his eyes were kind, intent and eager. "We have much to talk of, you and I. But first, your mind and heart shall be put at ease. Do you know who I am?"
Restive and anxious to be off, Chris nevertheless found it necessary to reply.
"You sell old stuff. That's all I know," he answered, beginning to feel a trifle surly.
Mr. Wicker nodded, tapping his fingertips together. "Yes," he agreed, "I sell old things—in your time. But now—in this time, what do you know of me?"
As he spoke there was a change of tone, as if a younger man was speaking, and in spite of his impatience to get home, Chris looked up sharply. Mr. Wicker was leaning forward, and Chris felt himself immovable under the vigor of those dark eyes.
"Nothing, sir," he heard himself saying, not taking his eyes from those of the man before him.
"I am a shipowner, Christopher, for one thing," Mr. Wicker drew a slow breath. "A merchant trading in tobacco, cotton, corn, and flour. But I am also—" he paused as if to give Chris time to hear each word, "I am also quite a fine magician," said Mr. Wicker.
Chris leaned back, disappointed and scornful. "Rabbits out of hats?" he inquired.