A minute or two and Mr. Butterby was introduced, amicably telling Miss Rye, that, to judge by appearances, London did not appear to agree with her. Mr. Brown, composedly writing, put down his pen in the middle of a word, and rose to receive him.
It was a chatty interview. The great man was on his agreeable manners, and talked of many things. He made some fatherly enquiries after the welfare of Mr. Hurst; observing that some of them country blades liked their fling when in London, but he fancied young Hurst was tolerably steady. Mr. Brown quietly said he had no reason to suppose him otherwise.
"You have been from thirteen to fourteen years with the Greatorexes, I think," remarked the detective.
Mr. Brown laughed. "From three to four."
"Oh, I made a mistake. And before you came to them?"
"With a solicitor, now deceased. Mr. Greatorex can tell you anything of him you wish to know. He had me direct from him."
"Me wish to know? Not a bit. Who on earth is it walking about overhead? His boots have been on the go ever since I came in."
"It must be Mr. Ollivera. He does walk in his rooms sometimes."
"I should say his mind was restless. Thinking always of his brother, they say. It was a curious case, that, take it for all in all. Ever heard the particulars, Mr. Brown?"
"Yes, Mr. Greatorex once related them to me. The young men in the office get speaking of it."