It was a somewhat pretentious place, consisting, so far as he could see, of but two rooms; the first of which, at least, was very solidly and heavily furnished. But by far the most solid and heavy piece of furniture in the place was the gentleman he imagined to be Mr. Z. Isaacson—a portly individual, with pronounced features, much watch-chain, and some heavy rings on his fat white fingers. Remembering, in time, that he was probably supposed to know this gentleman with some intimacy, Philip nodded carelessly, and threw himself into the chair which the other indicated.
“I’m glad you’ve come, my dear boy,” began Mr. Isaacson, in a familiar manner. He spoke with something of a nasal accent, and a little as though his tongue were too large for his mouth. “You know—we like to have things pleasant and square, and I like—as you’ve found before to-day—to do the amiable, if I can. But, you know, dear boy”—he passed his large hand over his shining bald head, and shook that head gravely—“this is rather—well, you know—really——”
His voice trailed off, and he pretended to be busy with some papers on his desk. Philip Chater looked at him for a moment, and then broke out impatiently,
“What are you talking about? What do you want with me?”
“Now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Isaacson, soothingly—“this is not the spirit I like to see—it isn’t really. You and me have had dealings, this year or two, and you’ve paid the little bit of interest I’ve asked, fairly and squarely; likewise, I’ve renewed from time to time—for a little consideration—and all has been square and pleasant. But, when it comes to playing it off on an old friend in this fashion—well, really, you know——”
Philip Chater was in no mood for unprofitable conversation, especially with a man of this stamp, on that particular morning. His nerves had been tried, beyond the lot of common nerves, within the past four-and-twenty hours; he had had a wet and weary journey, and not too much sleep. Consequently, the smooth oily utterances of Mr. Isaacson drove him almost to frenzy.
“Why the devil can’t you say what you’re driving at, and be done with it. You’ve brought me all this distance,” he cried, savagely—“and now you’re mouthing and carrying on in this fashion. What’s the matter with you? Out with it!”
Mr. Isaacson’s face underwent a sudden change; certain veins in his temples swelled up ominously, and he came a little way round his desk; leaning over it, and putting his face near to that of his visitor, he said, truculently—
“Oh—so you want me to out with it—do you? You’re not a bit ashamed of what you’ve done——”
“Ashamed? What of?” cried Philip.