“It would more than satisfy me,” returned Harley. “But every man to his own ambition. Well, there is no occasion to wait; you might as well get along. But what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Well,” replied Innes, laying a card upon the table, “I was just coming in with it when you rang.”
Paul Harley glanced at the card.
“Sir Charles Abingdon,” he read aloud, staring reflectively at his secretary. “That is the osteologist?”
“Yes,” answered Innes, “but I fancy he has retired from practice.”
“Ah,” murmured Harley, “I wonder what he wants. I suppose I had better see him, as I fancy that he and I met casually some years ago in India. Ask him to come in, will you?”
Innes retiring, there presently entered a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman upon whose florid face rested an expression not unlike that of embarrassment.
“Mr. Harley,” he began, “I feel somewhat ill at ease in encroaching upon your time, for I am by no means sure that my case comes within your particular province.”
“Sit down, Sir Charles,” said Harley with quiet geniality. “Officially, my working day is ended; but if nothing comes of your visit beyond a chat it will have been very welcome. Calcutta, was it not, where we last met?”
“It was,” replied Sir Charles, placing his hat and cane upon the table and sitting down rather wearily in a big leather armchair which Harley had pushed forward. “If I presume upon so slight an acquaintance, I am sorry, but I must confess that only the fact of having met you socially encouraged me to make this visit.”