"Dr. Manning!" I repeated. "I thought he was in London."
Bascomb whistled to the dog, who trotted up obediently to his side.
"'E may 'ave bin there for all I know. 'E come back last night anyway. I seen 'im goin' across to the barge."
There was a short pause.
"Well, I suppose we'd better get along and meet him," I said dryly. "I know he wants to have a talk with me, and I can't very well say I'm not at home."
To this Bascomb returned no answer. He fell in behind Ross and me, with Satan at his heels, and in this order we advanced across the strip of salting which still separated us from the landing-stage.
We reached our destination at almost the same moment as the boat. Its owner brought it up alongside with a skill which showed him to be a practised hand, and, switching off his engine, leaned over and caught hold of the ring.
I don't know exactly what I had expected, but my first impression of him was a distinctly surprising one. He was a man who would have attracted attention anywhere, if only for his unusual good looks. Except on one of the early Greek coins, I don't think I have ever seen features so extraordinarily well cut. His face was burned to the colour of old mahogany, and against this dark background a pair of china blue eyes looked out with a curious and almost disconcerting brilliance. He was wearing flannels and the usual white yachting cap, and as far as age went he might have been anything between forty and forty-five.
"How do you do?" he said pleasantly. "I suppose I'm right in taking you for Mr. Dryden? I'm Dr. Manning."
"You're quite right," I answered, "and I'm very glad to see you. Won't you come ashore?"