“I have a little income from my mother, and I write,” said the girl.
She stopped as she saw him looking past her to the studio entrance, and, turning her head, saw a remarkable figure standing in the doorway. At first she thought it was an actor who had made up for a film test.
The newcomer was an old man, but his great height and erect carriage would not have conveyed that impression at a distance. The tight-fitting tail-coat, the trousers strapped to his boots, the high collar and black satin stock belonged to a past age, though they were newly made. The white linen bands that showed at his wrists were goffered, his double-breasted waistcoat of grey velvet was fastened by golden buttons. He might have stepped from a family portrait of one of those dandies of the ’fifties. He held a tall hat in one gloved hand, a hat with a curly brim, and in the other a gold-topped walking-stick. The face, deeply lined, was benevolent and kind, and he seemed unconscious of his complete baldness.
Jack Knebworth was out of his chair in a second and walked toward the stranger.
“Why, Mr. Longvale, I am glad to see you—did you get my letter? I can’t tell you how much obliged I am to you for the loan of your house.”
Sampson Longvale, of the Dower House! She remembered now. He was known in Chichester as “the old-fashioned gentleman,” and once, when she was out on location, somebody had pointed out the big, rambling house, with its weed-grown garden and crumbling walls, where he lived.
“I thought I would come over and see you,” said the big man.
His voice was rich and beautifully modulated. She did not remember having heard a voice quite as sweet, and she looked at the eccentric figure with a new interest.
“I can only hope that the house and grounds are suitable to your requirements. I am afraid they are in sad disorder, but I cannot afford to keep the estate in the same condition as my grandfather did.”
“Just what I want, Mr. Longvale. I was afraid you might be offended when I told you——”