With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, his soiled soft hat on the back of his head, he met the enquiring and deferential gaze of Walters with a calm and insolent stare, for Mr. Brown was rather drunk.
“Well, well, my man,” he said impatiently, “why the devil do you keep me waiting on the doorstep of my friend Jesse’s house, eh?” He removed one of his hands from his pocket, possibly not the cleanest one, and tugged at his short grey beard.
“Mr.—er—Mr. Trasmere is out,” said Walters, “I will tell him you have called. What name, sir?”
“Wellington Brown is my name, good fellow,” said the stranger. “Wellington Brown from Chei-feu. I will come in and wait.”
But Walters barred the way.
“Mr. Trasmere has given me strict orders not to admit anybody unless he is in the house,” he said.
A wave of anger turned Wellington Brown’s face to a deeper red.
“He has given orders!” he spluttered. “That I am not to be admitted—I, Wellington Brown, who made his fortune, the swindling old thief! He knows I am coming!”
“Are you from China, sir?” blurted Walters.
“I have told you, menial and boot-licking yellow-plush, that I am from Chei-feu. If you are illiterate, as you appear to be, I will explain to you that Chei-feu is in China.”