4. MYSELF AND MISS BLAKE
Colonel Morris, after leaving River Hall, had migrated temporarily to a fashionable West End hotel, and was, when I called to see him, partaking of tiffin in the bosom of his family, instead of at his club.
As it was notorious that he and Mrs. Morris failed to lead the most harmonious of lives, I did not feel surprised to find him in an extremely bad temper.
In person, short, dapper, wiry, thin, and precise, his manner matched his appearance. He had martinet written on every square foot of his figure. His moustache was fiercely waxed, his shirt-collar inflexible, his backbone stiff, while his shoulder-blades met flat and even behind. He held his chin a little up in the air, and his walk was less a march than a strut.
He came into the room where I had been waiting for him, as I fancied he might have come on a wet, cold morning to meet an awkward-squad. He held the card I sent for his inspection in his hand, and referred to it, after he had looked me over with a supercilious glance.
"Mr. Patterson, from Messrs. Craven and Son," he read slowly out loud, and then added:
"May I inquire what Mr. Patterson from Messrs. Craven and Son wants with me?"
"I come from Miss Blake, sir," I remarked.
"It is here written that you come from Messrs. Craven and Son," he said.
"So I do, sir—upon Miss Blake's business. She is a client of ours, as you may remember."