The fowl supplied that.
Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he took his seat at the table placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking a sovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fell to.
You can generally tell a man by his claret, and judging from this claret the unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimable man.
A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by specious wine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul—and here he was.
A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man of forty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stood before the feaster.
He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed.
Jones half rose.
“Hello,” said he confusedly, with his mouth full—then he subsided into his chair.
“I must apologise for being late,” said the tall man, placing his hat on a chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat. “I was unavoidably detained. But I’m glad you did not wait supper.”
He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself out a glass of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon the cloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it in his pocket.