From what I had seen of Northcote, this argued a perspicacity with which I had hardly credited my adopted "cousin."
"One must be agreeable occasionally," I said, "if only for the sake of variety."
Maurice laughed shortly. "I expect you'll be agreeable enough to Lammersfield," he replied.
There was obviously some hidden meaning in his words, but it seemed a little too risky to angle for an explanation. So I contented myself with a noncommittal smile, storing away the remark in my memory for future reference.
We turned into Hanover Square, and crossed the roadway towards Regent Street. I had not the remotest notion where "Seagrave's" was, but Maurice pulled up at a small house just beyond the big flower shop, and I at once noticed the name on a brass plate:
MESSRS. SEAGRAVE AND CO.
REGISTRY OFFICE.
We opened the door and walked in. It was a superior sort of office, more like a private room, with arm-chairs scattered about, and a table containing the latest weekly papers.
A rather pompous, elderly, grey-bearded man in a frock-coat at once stepped forward.
"Good morning," I said, by way of opening the conversation.
He bowed deferentially. "Good morning, gentlemen."