The house was a four-story brown-stone front, with English basement, differing in no wise from the thousands of fashionable mansions to be seen in the upper part of the city.
Gilbert rang the bell.
“Is Mrs. Briggs at home?” he inquired of the servant, who answered the bell.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll see. Will you send your name?”
Gilbert drew out a neat visiting-card bearing his name. The servant took it, and carried it to her mistress.
“Take a seat in the parlor, sir,” she said, on her return. “Mrs. Briggs will be down directly.”
The large parlor was showily furnished, in the regulation style. There was a chilly splendor about it that carried with it no idea of comfort or home feeling. Gilbert’s attention was drawn to a family portrait near the front windows. There were three figures,—Mr. Briggs, Randolph, and a lady, who was probably Mrs. Briggs. She had a high forehead, a thin face, cold blue eyes, and pinched lips. Gilbert privately decided that he should not like the original of that portrait.
While he was examining it Mrs. Briggs entered.
“Mr. Greyson?” she asked, in a chilly way.
“Yes, madam.”