Da Souza's office was neither furnished nor located with the idea of impressing casual visitors. It was in a back-street off an alley, and although within a stone's throw of Lothbury its immediate surroundings were not exhilarating. A blank wall faced it, a green-grocer's shop shared with a wonderful, cellar-like public-house the honour of its more immediate environment. Trent, whose first visit it was, looked about him with surprise mingled with some disgust.
He pushed open the swing door and found himself face to face with Da Souza's one clerk—a youth of unkempt appearance, shabbily but flashily dressed, with sallow complexion and eyes set close together. He was engaged at that particular moment in polishing a large diamond pin upon the sleeve of his coat, which operation he suspended to gaze with much astonishment at this unlooked-for visitor. Trent had come straight from Ascot, straight indeed from his interview with Francis, and was still wearing his racing-glasses.
“I wish to see Mr. Da Souza,” Trent said. “Is he in?”
“I believe so, sir,” the boy answered. “What name?”
“Trent! Mr. Scarlett Trent!”
The door of an inner office opened, and Da Souza, sleek and curled, presented himself. He showed all his white teeth in the smile with which he welcomed his visitor. The light of battle was in his small, keen eyes, in his cringing bow, his mock humility.
“I am most honoured, Mr. Trent, sir,” he declared. “Welcome back to England. When did you return?”
“Yesterday,” Trent said shortly.
“And you have come,” Da Souza continued, “fresh from the triumphs of the race-course. It is so, I trust?”
“I have come straight from Ascot,” Trent replied, “but my horse was beaten if that is what you mean. I did not come here to talk about racing though. I want a word with you in private.”