“I am, dear Lady Deringham,
“Yours sincerely,
“John Whitlett.
“P.S.—You will please not offer him any fee.”
Wolfenden folded up the letter and returned it.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” he said. “It’s an odd time, though, to call on an errand of this sort.”
“So I thought,” Lady Deringham agreed; “but Dr. Whitlett’s explanation seems perfectly feasible, does it not? I said that I would consult you. You will come in and see him?”
Wolfenden followed his mother into the drawing-room. A tall, dark man was sitting in a corner, under a palm tree. In one hand he held a magazine, the pictures of which he seemed to be studying with the aid of an eyeglass, the other was raised to his mouth. He was in the act of indulging in a yawn when Wolfenden and his mother entered the room.
“This is my son, Lord Wolfenden,” she said. “Dr. Franklin Wilmot.”
The two men bowed.
“Lady Deringham has explained to you the reason of my untimely visit, I presume?” the latter remarked at once.
Wolfenden assented.