Faulkner’s butler was an amiable creature and inclined to associate with a piano tuner on equal terms. He had rather fine features and was admired of the female domestics. His dignity forbade him to indulge in much familiarity with the men beneath him and he welcomed the pseudo-tuner as an opportunity to converse.
“I knew you by your voice,” said the butler cordially. “Come in.”
There was little chance that the maid servants behind whom he had sat on the car would recognize him. Or if they did there was no reason why they should be suspicious.
Mrs. Carr Faulkner’s boudoir was a delightful room on the third floor. A little electric, self-operated elevator leading to it was pointed out by the butler.
“Not for the likes of you or me,” said the man. “We can walk.”
Mrs. Carr Faulkner was a dissatisfied looking blonde woman. In her opera box surrounded by friends and displaying her famous jewels she had seemed a vision of loveliness to the gazing far-away Trent. Here in her own home and dealing with those whom she considered her inferiors, she made no effort to be even civil.
“Who is this person?” she demanded of the butler.
“The man come to look at the piano, ma’am,” he returned.
“You’re not Mr. Jackson,” she said with abruptness.
It was plain Jackson was known. Trent blamed himself for not thinking of this possibility.