Walking up the stairs, I found myself in the front room, where a long gaunt spectre stood at an old-fashioned desk, looking as if he had stood there for at least one hundred years. The spectre was the guardian of Sir John’s privacy. He is now dead and is no doubt a ghost, which can make but little difference to him. He spoke in a low voice, as if in fear of waking a very sick woman. He glided towards me as I stood at the rail between him and me, and whispered, “Good-morning, Mr. Wesblock. You have an engagement with Sir John.”
I bade the spectre “Good-morning,” and said that I was expected by Sir John.
Thereupon, with a murmured acquiescence, he disappeared into an adjoining room. Presently he returned as he had gone, walking as if he had tender feet; and I was shown into Sir John’s presence.
Sir John sat like a graven image at his pre-Victorian desk.
“Good-morning, Sir John,” I said, making a failure of an attempt to be cheerful and hopeful in my tone.
“John,” he said, without returning my greeting, “I have decided to help you.”
“Thank you, Sir John,” I said, and would have said more, but he interrupted me.
“You have your books with you. Allow me to see them.”
I put my books, two in number, before him, brought my statement to his notice and sat down without being asked. Sir John perused my documents for a long time; it seemed about ten minutes. While he studied he tapped the desk with his fingers and emitted from his inwardness several short grunts, full of meaning.
“I cannot make an empty sack stand up,” he said at last.