I had just finished breakfast, and was slowly enjoying an especially
fragrant pipe, when my front-door bell rang with some violence.
"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."