"But you," he said impatiently, "I don't know you."
I offered him my card, and explained that Miss Hamerton had retained my
services.
He was silent for a few moments, chewing his moustache. It was
impossible to guess what was going on behind the mask of his features.
Suddenly he started to cross-question me like a criminal lawyer. How
long had I been in business? Was I accustomed to handling big cases?
Had I any financial standing? What references could I give? And so
on, and so on.
My patience finally gave way under it. "I beg your pardon," I said
stiffly. "I recognise the right of only one person to examine me in
this manner. That is my client."
He pulled himself together, and, I must say, apologised handsomely.
Like all big men he was often surprisingly frank. "Forgive me," he
said winningly. "You are quite right. I am terribly upset by your
news. I forgot myself. I confess, too, I am hurt that Miss Hamerton
should have acted in this matter without first consulting me. I am a
very old friend."
I was glad she had done so, for something told me I never should have
got the job from him. I did not tell him how she had come to engage
me, though he gave me several openings to do so.
"I am not a narrow man," he said in his best manner. "I will not hold
it against you. Only show me that you are the man for the job, and I
will aid you with all my power."
I accepted the olive branch. "I spoke too hastily myself," I returned.
"I shall be glad to tell you anything you want to know about myself."
We basked in the rays of mutual politeness for a while. Still that
instinctive dislike of the man would not quite down. He asked no more
personal questions.
"Have the police been notified?" he enquired.
"Miss Hamerton imposes absolute secrecy."
"Quite so," he said quickly. "That is wise."