“A gen—gentleman to see you, sir, on business.”
“Engaged. Cannot see anyone. Look here, Mrs Brade.”
“Mr Malcolm Stratton, I presume,” said a heavily built man with a florid face, greyish hair, and closely cut foreign looking hair.
“My name, sir, but I am particularly engaged this morning. If you have business with me you must write.”
This at the doorway, with Mrs Brade standing a little back on the stone landing.
“No time for writing,” said the stranger sternly. “Business too important. Needn’t wait, Mrs what’s-your-name,” he continued, turning upon the woman so sharply that she began to hurry down the stairs.
“I don’t care how important your mission is, sir,” cried Stratton; “I cannot give you an interview this morning. If you have anything to say you must write. My business—”
“I know,” said the man coolly: “going to be married.”
Stratton took a step back, and his visitor one forward into the room, turned, closed the outer door, and, before Stratton could recover from his surprise, the inner door, and pointed to a chair.
“Sit down,” said the man, and he took another chair and sat back in it.