Old Peter finished his bit of buttered toast and quietly sipped his tea.
“Yes?” he said.
“What is it this time, Peter, a box for the Red Cross Matinee or a subscription to the new fund? Come on, out with it.”
Peter screwed his single glass into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and examining the muffin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast.
“Try again,” he remarked.
“It’s worse than I thought.” The big man looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The other finished his tea and lay back in his chair.
“Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants to sell her pictures.”
Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into the fire.
“She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!”
Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a moment’s silence before the latter continued—