“Isn’t that a car?” he asked, “that’ll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!”
There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?
He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a glass head.
“Well, Max,” said Mortimer. “Have you brought them all?”
The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.
“My friend, Bellward!” said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. “You’ve heard of Bellward, Max!”
And to Desmond’s surprise he made some passes in the air.
The man’s mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost overawed.
“Reelly,” he grunted, “reelly now! You don’t siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I’m shore!”
He spoke with a vile snuffing cockney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer: