This was an office, smart and well furnished, with ground-glass panes in the windows and three oak doors massively built.
A peculiarity of the doors was that they had no handles.
A large, bland, smooth-faced gentleman, wearing blue glasses and sitting behind a table, rose to his feet.
“Sit down, Mr. Beaulieu.”
“I prefer,” said Simon, “to stand.”
The other inclined his head and resumed his seat.
“As you please. You have your credentials?”
“There they are.” The Master’s letter passed. “I have the money also.”
“But naturally,” said the smooth-faced gentleman. He took an envelope from a drawer and smiled affectionately upon it. “This is Miss Bohun’s letter. I like her handwriting. It reminds me of my dear mother’s.”
“Indeed,” said Simon. “May I see it—as a matter of form?”