Preston had left the room for a moment and now came back to say that Mr. W. W. Power had arrived.
W. W. Power was the youngest partner in a celebrated firm of solicitors, Power, Davids and Power—a firm that has acted for my father and myself for more years than I can remember.
Under his somewhat effeminate exterior and a languid manner, young Power is one of the sharpest and cleverest fellows I know, and, what's more, one that can keep his mouth shut under any circumstances.
I went into the dining-room, hoping to make him start. Not a bit of it. He merely put up his eyeglass and said laconically: "You'll do, Sir Thomas"—not more than two years ago he had been an under-graduate at Cambridge!
"You think so, Power?"
He nodded and looked at his watch.
"All right then, we'll be off," I said, and Preston called a taxi, on which were piled a large brass-bound trunk and a shabby portmanteau—also recent purchases, and with the name H. Thomas painted boldly upon them. Preston's Christian name by the way is Henry and I had borrowed it for the occasion.
I got into the cab with a curious sensation that some one might be looking on and discover me. Power seated himself by my side with no indication of thought at all, and we rolled away westward.
"Nothing remains," he said, "but to complete the documents of sale. Everything is ready, and I have the money in notes in my pocket. The solicitor of the retiring proprietor will be in attendance, and the whole thing won't take more than twenty minutes. Newby, the present man, will then step out and leave you in undisturbed possession."
"Very good, Power, and thank you for your negotiations. Seven thousand pounds seems a lot of money for a little hole like that."