"I shall certainly communicate with him in writing, but, nevertheless, you must see him. I cannot explain everything in a letter."
"But doesn't it strike you that he may think it pretty bad gall—impertinence, don't you know, for a comparative stranger like me to be tackling a delicate family affair like this?"
"You will explain that you are acting for me."
"It wouldn't be better if old Duggie went along instead?"
"I wish you to go, Reginald."
Well, of course, it was all right, don't you know, but I was losing several pounds a day over the business. I was getting so light that I felt that, when the old man kicked me, I should just soar up to the ceiling like an air balloon.
The club was one of those large clubs that look like prisons. I used to go there to lunch with my uncle, the one who left me his money, and I always hated the place. It was one of those clubs that are all red leather and hushed whispers.
I'm bound to say, though, there wasn't much hushed whispering when I started my interview with old man Craye. His voice was one of my childhood's recollections.
He was most extraordinarily like Florence. He had just the same eyes. I felt boneless from the start.
"Good morning," I said.