Wynter dressed himself in his best, and hailing a hansom cab, drove to Wheatland Emporium in Highbury.
He found him, an anxious worried little man, pompous and vain, with horrible mutton chop whiskers.
He had risen by energy and hard work through the stages of assistant to shop-walker and manager, until he had obtained a shop of his own, and his middle aged affection had been lavished on his cashier Winnie, then a beautiful young girl, and ambitious.
She had married him for his money, hoping to twist him round her fingers, and found him vain and jealous, and exacting in his ideas both of marital duty and spending limits.
Wynter he greeted with the artificial smile of the business man expecting custom, and the latter bowed politely; he was enjoying his part. “Mr. Wheatland, I believe?” he said.
“The same, sir, at your service,” answered the other.
“May I have a word with you, sir?” said the soldier.
“Certainly, come to my office.”
Seated in Wheatland’s private room, Wynter felt a sudden distaste at his mission. After all, this poor man had been treated badly, and he had his rights like anyone else.
“I am afraid I have come on an unpleasant errand,” he said “I represent Lord Reckavile.”