“How can a woman be so deceitful, and all for the sake of show? And me never to know that she wore a front!”
“All, well!” he sighed, “I can’t touch it to-day,” and rising slowly he replaced it in the box, dropped the note within, roughly secured the packet, and opened a drawer at the side.
As he pulled the drawer sharply out, something rolled from front to back, and then, as the drawer was out to its full extent, rolled down to the front.
He picked it out, dropped the cardboard box within, and shut it up, ignoring the bottle he held in his hand as he walked away to slip the bolt back and throw open the door.
He was just in time to receive a customer in the shape of Doctor Asher, who entered and nodded.
“I want you, Wimble,” he said. “When can you come up? Beginning to show a little grey about the roots, am I not?”
“Yes, sir, decidedly,” said Wimble, as the doctor took off his hat, and displayed his well-kept dark hair.
“When will you come, then?”
“When you like, sir,” said Wimble, unconsciously rubbing the tip of his nose with the cork of the little bottle he held in his hand.
“To-morrow afternoon, then,” said the doctor sharply; “and you needn’t shake the hair dye in my face.”