“Has Mr. Brixan come back?”
He shook his head.
“No, I’ve not heard from him. There was a tough-looking fellow called at the studio half an hour ago to ask whether he’d returned.”
“Rather an unpleasant-looking tramp?” she asked. “I spoke to him. He said he had a letter for Mr. Brixan which he would not deliver to anybody else.”
She looked through the window which commanded a view of the entrance drive to the studio. Standing outside on the edge of the pavement was the wreck of a man. Long, lank black hair, streaked with grey, fell from beneath the soiled and dilapidated golf cap; he was apparently shirtless, for the collar of his indescribable jacket was buttoned up to his throat; and his bare toes showed through one gaping boot.
He might have been a man of sixty, but it was difficult to arrive at his age. It looked as though the grey, stubbled beard had not met a razor since he was in prison last. His eyes were red and inflamed; his nose that crimson which is almost blue. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his trousers, and seemed to be their only visible means of support, until you saw the string that was tied around his lean waist; and as he stood, he shuffled his feet rhythmically, whistling a doleful tune. From time to time he took one of his hands from his pockets and examined the somewhat soiled envelope it held, and then, as if satisfied with the scrutiny, put it back again and continued his jigging vigil.
“Do you think you ought to see that letter?” asked the girl, troubled. “It may be very important.”
“I thought that too,” said Jack Knebworth, “but when I asked him to let me see the note, he just grinned.”
“Do you know who it’s from?”
“No more than a crow, my dear,” said Knebworth patiently. “And now let’s get off the all-absorbing subject of Michael Brixan, and get back to the fair Roselle. That shot I took of the tower can’t be bettered, so I’m going to cut out the night picture, and from now on we’ll work on the lot.”