A man stood beside the little table—one whom Whitaker had indifferently noticed on entering as an equally lonely lounger at another table.
Though he frowned involuntarily with annoyance, he couldn't well deny his identity.
"Yes," he said shortly, looking the man up and down with a captious eye.
Yet it was hard to find much fault with this invader of his preoccupation. He had the poise and the dress of a gentleman: dignity without aggressiveness, completeness without ostentation. He had a spare, not ungraceful body, a plain, dark face, a humorous mouth, steady eyes: a man easily forgotten or overlooked unless he willed it otherwise.
"My name is Ember," he said quietly. "If you'll permit me—my card." He offered a slip of pasteboard engraved with the name of Martin Ember. "And I'll sit down, because I want to talk to you for a few minutes."
Accordingly he sat down. Whitaker glanced at the card, and questioningly back at Mr. Ember's face.
"I don't know you, but ... What are we to talk about, please?"
The man smiled, not unpleasingly.
"Mrs. Whitaker," he said.
Whitaker stared, frowned, and jumped at a conclusion.