In a moment Mr. Gascoyne opened the door of his inner office, showing out two elderly men. Whilst listening to their last words he motioned me to enter with a grave smile.
In a minute he joined me and closed the door of the office behind him.
“Please sit down, Mr. Rank.” He seated himself on the chair behind his desk and motioned me to the one opposite. I could not help noticing how much he had aged in the two or three months that had elapsed since I had seen him last.
“You are not like the Gascoynes,” he said, with a smile, “and yet there is a something.”
“My father was a Jew, and I think I am like him.”
“To be frank with you, I have taken the trouble to find out exactly the relationship in which we stand.”
I felt alarmed. It was distinctly unpleasant to hear that he had been making inquiries about me.
“This is my mother’s photograph,” I said, handing him a small likeness of her. He looked at it with interest.
“It is a very sweet face. She is dead, I believe?”
“Yes, I have no nearer relative than Henry Gascoyne.”