"A young man named Maillot," he said; "Royal Maillot."
"And who is this Royal Maillot?" I next asked.
Was Burke returning my intent look? Or did he have an eye for some fancied movement behind him, or off there toward the closed library door? For the life of me, I could not have told with assurance.
"I can't tell you much from my own knowledge," he presently returned; and now I was pretty positive that he was meeting my regard. "Mr. Maillot is still here, however; he can speak for himself."
"I know that"—curtly; "but I prefer to be informed beforehand—even if it's only by hearsay. Who is Mr. Maillot?"
Again the furtive, wandering look behind the blank of the clean-shaven, ageless features.
"I 've gathered the idea that he 's a young lawyer, and that some business affair brought him here to confer with Mr. Page. He arrived only last night. The whole circumstance was very unusual."
"What do you mean by that?"
Some moments elapsed before he replied.
"Why," presently, "Mr. Page was not in the habit of seeing people here, or—as far as that's concerned—of considering any business matters whatever after he returned home in the evening; this was his invariable rule, excepting—" He paused.