“From Morgan, quite possibly. I have a letter from Mr. Pickering myself this morning. Just a moment, sir.”
He placed before me a note bearing the same date as my own. It was a sharp rebuke of Bates for his failure to report my absence, and he was ordered to prepare to leave on the first of February. “Close your accounts at the shopkeepers’ and I will audit your bills on my arrival.”
The tone was peremptory and contemptuous. Bates had failed to satisfy Pickering and was flung off like a smoked-out cigar.
“How much had he allowed you for expenses, Bates?”
He met my gaze imperturbably.
“He paid me fifty dollars a month as wages, sir, and I was allowed seventy-five for other expenses.”
“But you didn’t buy English pheasants and champagne on that allowance!”
He was carrying away the coffee tray and his eyes wandered to the windows.
“Not quite, sir. You see—”
“But I don’t see!”