Johnny nodded pleasantly. “If it is business, Sunday evening is hardly the time—”
“It is personal and private business, Mr. Everard.”
The man, Johnny decided, was not, as Con had supposed, drunk, but he had evidently been in the wars. It was surprising the number of places in which he seemed to be wounded. He walked stiffly, he carried his right arm stiffly. His face was decorated with plaster, and his obviously very good clothes were torn; for what Hugh Alston had commenced so ably last night, Rundle had completed this morning.
“It is private and personal, my business with you. I understand you are engaged to be married to a lady in whom I have felt some interest.”
Johnny looked up and stiffened.
“Well?”
“I allude to Miss Joan Meredyth, for some time engaged by me as a typist in my city office.”
“Well?”
“Miss Meredyth did not always hold the position in society that she does now.”
“I am aware of that.”