So utter was Morris’s subjection that he did not wait to be asked, but handed the note to John as soon as he had glanced at it himself.
“That’s the way to write a letter,” cried John. “Nobody but Michael could have written that.”
And Morris did not even claim the credit of priority.
CHAPTER XVI
FINAL ADJUSTMENT OF THE LEATHER BUSINESS
Finsbury brothers were ushered, at ten the next morning, into a large apartment in Michael’s office; the Great Vance, somewhat restored from yesterday’s exhaustion, but with one foot in a slipper; Morris, not positively damaged, but a man ten years older than he who had left Bournemouth eight days before, his face ploughed full of anxious wrinkles, his dark hair liberally grizzled at the temples.
Three persons were seated at a table to receive them: Michael in the midst, Gideon Forsyth on his right hand, on his left an ancient gentleman with spectacles and silver hair.
“By Jingo, it’s Uncle Joe!” cried John.