Mr. Scawthorne was not distinguished by directness of gaze. He had handsome features, and a not unpleasant cast of countenance, but something, possibly the habit of professional prudence, made his regard coldly, fitfully, absently observant. It was markedly so as he turned his face towards Joseph whilst the latter was speaking. After a moment’s silence he remarked, without emphasis:
‘A relative of yours, you said?’
‘No, I said a friend—intimate friend. Polkenhorne knows him too.’
‘Does he? I haven’t seen Polkenhorne for a long time.’
‘You don’t care to talk about the business? Perhaps you’d better introduce me to Mr. Percival.’
‘By the name of Camden?’
‘Hang it! I may as well tell you at once. Snowdon is my own name.’
‘Indeed? And how am I to be sure of that?’
‘Come and see me where I’m living, in Clerkenwell Close, and then make inquiries of my father, in Hanover Street, Islington. There’s no reason now for keeping up the old name—a little affair—all put right. But the fact is, I’d as soon find out what this business is with your office without my father knowing. I have reasons; shouldn’t mind talking them over with you, if you can give me the information I want.’
‘I can do that,’ replied Scawthorne with a smile. ‘If you are J. J. Snowdon, you are requested to communicate with Michael Snowdon—that’s all.’