Mr. Pownceby clutched Miss Haseltine's arm.
"It's he!" he whispered.
"There is a Mrs. Pratt staying here," replied the book-keeper. "Her sitting-room is No. 13."
The new arrival was about to be ushered into No. 13, when Mr. Pownceby interposed. He hurried across the hall and touched him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, may I speak to you? My name is Pownceby."
The new arrival turned and faced him. As he did so Mr. Pownceby perceived, a little dimly perhaps, what sort of a man he was. He was of medium height, slightly built, about forty years of age, very dark, with a clean-shaven face and a pair of keen black eyes, which looked at Mr. Pownceby as though they meant to pierce him.
"Delighted to hear you speak, or any man, even if his name's not Pownceby."
Directly the words were spoken Mr. Pownceby became conscious that the new arrival was an American.
"I believe you are Mr. Pratt--Mrs. Pratt's husband."
"I am--worse luck."
"Eh--she intended to meet you at 12.32."