The newspaper clippings had a faintly familiar look. From across the room he thought it the type and paper of the Gleaner. His stories, doubtless. Mr Merchant was making the man read them. Well, what of it! What was the good, if they made him so cross.
'Calverly, if Mr Galbraith would stop reading for a minute—'
'I won't. Don't interrupt me!'
'—I would introduce him.'
Galbraith! The name brought colour to Henry's cheek. Not... It couldn't be!....
'But whether you care to know it or not, this is Mr Calverly, the author of——'
'So I gathered. Keep still!'
Then the extraordinary gentleman, muttering angrily, gathered up the clippings and went abruptly off down the hall, apparently to one of the bedrooms.
'That—that isn't the Mr Galbraith?' asked Henry, in voice tinged with awe.
'That's who it is. The creator of the modern magazine. We'll have to wait till he's finished now, or he'll eat us alive.'