"I don't know him. What does he want?"
"Wouldn't say, sor; seemed surprised whin I towld him ye were in, an' said
he was glad to hear it--business pressin', says he."
"'Snaith'? But I never heard the name before. What does he look like?"
"A gintleman, sor, be th' clothes av him an' th' way he talks."
"Well.... Devil take the man! Show him in."
"Very good, sor."
Maitland swung around in his desk chair, his back to the window, expression
politely curious, as his caller entered the room, pausing, hat in hand,
just across the threshold.
He proved to be a man apparently of middle age, of height approximating
Maitland's; his shoulders were slightly rounded as if from habitual bending
over a desk, his pose mild and deferential. By his eyeglasses and peering
look, he was near-sighted; by his dress, a gentleman of taste and judgment
as well as of means to gratify both. A certain jaunty and summery touch in
his attire suggested a person of leisure who had just run down from his
country place, for a day in town.
His voice, when he spoke, did nothing to dispel the illusion.
"Mr. Maitland?" he opened the conversation briskly. "I trust I do not
intrude? I shall be brief as possible, if you will favor me with a private
interview."
Maitland remarked a voice well modulated and a good choice of words. He
rose courteously.
"I should be pleased to do so," he suggested, "if you could advance any
reasons for such a request."
Mr. Snaith smiled discreetly, fumbling in his side pocket.
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