"This is undoubtedly Pitman," I said to myself.
It was. He came in stamping the snow off his boots on to my new carpet.
"Sit down," I said harshly. He seated himself obediently, and tearing off the front page of the News and Leader, which had been left at my house by mistake, I handed it across to him.
"Put your feet on that," I said, "if they'll go on, and don't move until they are properly thawed, and whatever you do, don't remark it's seasonable weather."
He followed my instructions meekly.
Pitman is a great friend of mine. We live in the same village, and he is a local architect. At least, that is what he calls himself. Some of his clients call him other things. He is also married.
I am rather frightened of Mrs. Pitman, for she is under the impression that I exercise an evil influence over her husband. She told another lady in confidence, who repeated it to me, that "no man would live in a country village by himself unless he had something to hide."
I tossed my tobacco pouch across the table.
"Light a pipe and explain yourself," I said.
"I thought you would be in bed and asleep," he began. "You're getting into vicious habits living alone. When an unmarried man takes to breakfasting at nine o'clock it's a bad sign—shows he can't sleep."