The dingy room—the walls, ceiling, and bare floor were all of the same neutral kind of grey tint—had a little fire-place, wherein stood a meagre gas-stove. Above it on shelves were numerous mysterious-looking bottles containing samples of wine, and against the wall were numerous oil-paintings, placed there, not for ornament, but with reference to Mr. Slagg's multifarious modes of doing business and 'doing' the public.
His rather rotund but misshapen figure was wedged deep in a black leathern easychair at an ink-spotted desk, whereon lay piles of battered and greasy-looking ledgers and day-books. His bald head was sunk between his heavily-rounded shoulders; he had large, coarse ears, a nose like an inverted pear, pendulous cheeks, to which straggling grey whiskers were attached, and he had cunning little eyes that twinkled in deep and cavernous sockets.
Altogether Mr. Solomon Slagg was not a pleasant person to look upon, but his face, such as it was, lighted up when he saw his visitor, to whom he bowed low, without rising, and to whom he indicated a chair by a wave of his pen, with which he made a mark or sum total on a page, and, closing a small ledger, turned to Lord Cadbury.
'Stifling den this of yours,' grumbled the latter, as he lighted a cigar; 'no objections to smoking, I suppose?'
'None, my lord.'
'A vile day of fog—utter black fog. Had the devil's own trouble in making you out on foot from Moorgate Street Station; but, you got my letter, of course?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'And acted upon it?'
'Yes, my lord,' said Slagg, slowly, 'I was just about to write——'
'That you had got up all Cheyne's blue paper.'