Timothy winked, and was readmitted to the confidence of the democracy.
Sir John Maxell was standing up behind his writing table, a fine, big man with his grey hair neatly brushed back from his forehead and his blue eyes magnified behind rimless glasses.
“T. A. C. Anderson,” he said, coming round the table with slow steps. “Surely this is not the little Timothy I heard so much about years and years ago!”
“That is I, sir,” said Timothy.
“Well, well,” said Maxell, “I should never have known you. Sit down, my boy. You smoke, of course—everybody smokes nowadays, but it seems strange that a boy I knew in short breeches should have acquired the habit. I’ve heard about you,” he said, as Timothy lit his cigar.
“Nothing to my discredit, I hope, sir?”
Maxell shook his head.
“I have heard about you,” he repeated diplomatically, “let it go at that. Now I suppose you’ve come here because, five years ago, on the twenty-third of December to be correct, I wrote to you, offering to give you any help that lay in my power.”
“I won’t swear to the date,” said Tim.
“But I will,” smiled the other. “I never forget a date, I never forget a letter, I never forget the exact wording of that letter. My memory is an amazing gift. Now just tell me what I can do for you.”