Sir Anthony bade him be seated, ordered in cigars and whisky, and plunged into business.
He was once more the level-headed business man, the man who could take in the whole details of the management of a big estate in a few hours, pick holes in it, point out errors, and show as deep a knowledge of detail as though he lived there all the year round.
It was past dinner-time, but he apparently forgot the fact.
After several hours’ conversation and inspection of accounts, Sir Anthony, who was standing with his back to the mantelpiece, suddenly, in the middle of a confabulation about drainage, turned the conversation.
“By the way,” he said, “have you seen an artist fellow about here, man in a broad-brimmed hat—”
“If he’s the man you mean,” replied the agent, “I believe it’s a man with a German name, Klein, an artist. I let him have Skirle Cottage a month ago.”
“Klein,” said the other, in a meditative tone.
“He took it for three months,” went on Gristlethwaite. “Paid in advance. He brought some sticks of furniture from Penrith; he’s an ill-looking chap, but his money is good; half-cracked I should think, coming here this time of year.”
“He didn’t give you any references.”
“No, he paid in advance; I was in two minds about letting him have the place, but since old Lewthwaite’s death it has been lying idle and going to pieces.”