“You bring him up if he has,” said Hutchinson. “We'd like to hear about it.”
Tembarom ran down the stairs quickly.
No one had ever wanted to see him on business before. There was something important-sounding about it; perhaps things were starting up for him in real earnest. It might be a message from Galton, though he could not believe that he had at this early stage reached such a distinction. A ghastly thought shot a bolt at him, but he shook himself free of it.
“He's not a fellow to go back on his word, anyhow,” he insisted.
There were more boarders than usual in the parlor. The young woman from the notion counter had company; and one of her guests was playing “He sut'nly was Good to Me” on the pianola with loud and steady tread of pedal.
The new arrival had evidently not thought it worth his while to commit himself to permanency by taking a seat. He was standing not far from the door with a businesslike-looking envelop in one hand and a pince-nez in the other, with which Tembarom saw he was rather fretfully tapping the envelop as he looked about him. He was plainly taking in the characteristics of the room, and was not leniently disposed toward them. His tailor was clearly an excellent one, with entirely correct ideas as to the cut and material which exactly befitted an elderly gentleman of some impressiveness in the position, whatsoever it happened to be, which he held. His face was not of a friendly type, and his eyes held cold irritation discreetly restrained by businesslike civility. Tembarom vaguely felt the genialities of the oyster supper assume a rather fourth-rate air.
The caller advanced and spoke first.
“Mr. Tembarom?” he inquired.
“Yes,” Tembarom answered, “I'm T. Tembarom.”
“T.,” repeated the stranger, with a slightly puzzled expression. “Ah, yes; I see. I beg pardon.”