Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen around which prevents him from being observed by the first-described group.
Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies a table in the centre of the apartment, near which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made his appearance.
This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's entrance.
The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers, bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not liking the company he was in.
Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.
"As all the parties concerned in this meeting are present," commenced the devotee of Blackstone, "I will at once proceed to business. You are too much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude to interrogations which will explain themselves."
Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.
The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of shaggy hair with professional dignity.
"It is something over twenty years since your brother, Henry Flint, died, is it not?"
The merchant nodded.