“Perhaps you'd better come in, sir,” he said humbly. It was evident my manner, which was, I may say, almost haughty, had impressed him deeply. “If you will wait, sir, I'll have the marster called, sir. He's not far away, sir.”
“Very good,” I replied. “Do so!”
He showed us into a large library and fussed about, offering drinks and cigars and what-not. Winsell seemed somewhat perturbed by these attentions, but I bade him remain perfectly calm and collected, adding that I would do all the talking.
We took cigars—very good cigars they were. As they were not banded I assumed they were home grown. I had always heard that Connecticut tobacco was strong, but these specimens were very mild and pleasant. I had about decided I should put in tobacco for private consumption and grow my own cigars and cigarettes when the door opened, and a stout elderly man with side whiskers entered the room. He was in golfing costume and was breathing hard.
“As soon as I got your message I hurried over as fast as I could,” he said.
“You need not apologize,” I replied; “we have not been kept waiting very long.”
“I presume you come in regard to the traction matter?” he ventured.
“No,” I said, “not exactly. You own this place, I believe?”
“I do,” he said, staring at me.
“So far, so good,” I said. “Now, then, kindly tell me when you expect to abandon it.”