At seven-thirty the next morning Gray was at the stable. It was not a very good-looking place. He rang the bell, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. No one answered. He rang a second and a third time, and still there was no answer. He listened, his ear close to the door. He heard the muffled sound of a horse pounding in a well-littered stall.
At eight o'clock—Gray heard a clock within chime the hour—the door opened. Gray entered. A man was hitching up a dark bay horse to a coupé. Mr. Robison was sitting in a sumptuous green-plush armchair in the carriage-room. Behind him, on a mahogany table, was a small valise, opened.
“Good morning, Gray,” said Robison.
“Good morning, Mr. Maynard,” said Gray, respectfully.
Robison took a clean white-linen handkerchief from his pocket and said:
“See that brick over there?” He pointed to a common red brick on a little shelf near the street door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, wrap it up in this handkerchief—here on this table. No—don't dust it. Just as it is!” He watched Gray's face keenly. The old man's countenance remained English and impassive.
“Put it in the valise.”
“Yes, sir.”