"What particular business?"
"Pictures," was the answer.
This was transmitted, and the reply taken.
"You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer."
Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which Mr. Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio.
He was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and bright eyes. His moustache and imperial did not conceal the extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw.
He rose as his visitor entered. He was, as usual, attired in a frock-coat and grey trousers. Once he had been in flannels when an emergency had arisen demanding City attire, which was not immediately forthcoming. Mr. Meyer had lost an opportunity in life through carelessness. Therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat, except when in evening dress or pyjamas. The occasion should never again find him wanting.
"You wished to see me on business?" he asked. "What is it?"
His visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould—a good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty—replied:
"I came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place."