“No, sir.”
“Did you not ask him for it?”
“Yes, sir. And he said you would be none the wiser if he told me what it was.”
“Does he look like a begging-letter writer?”
“He looks a little shabby, sir, but he doesn’t talk at all like a begging-letter writer. He spoke sharp and decided, sir, and said it was in your interests that he came, and that you would deeply regret it afterward if you refused to see him.”
“He said that, did he? Show him in at once, then.”
He was shown in immediately: a middling-sized man, with a sharp, unwholesome-looking face, and with a flippant, reckless manner, dressed in a style of shabby smartness, eying me with a bold look, and not so overburdened with politeness as to trouble himself about taking off his hat when he came in. I had never seen him before in my life, and I could not form the slightest conjecture from his appearance to guide me toward guessing his position in the world. He was not a gentleman, evidently; but as to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite downward gradations of vagabond existence in London, that was a mystery which I was totally incompetent to solve.
“Is your name Trowbridge?” he began.
“Yes,” I answered, dryly enough.
“Do you bank with Marsh, Stracey, Fauntleroy & Graham?”