You haven't time to be loitering about."
"I haven't," agreed Sam. "Is my father in? I'd like to see him if he's
not busy."
Mr. Peters, recalled to his professional duties, shed his sinister
front like a garment. He picked up a speaking tube and blew down it.
"Mr. Samuel to see you, Mr. Mallaby. Yes, sir, very good. Will you go
right in, Mr. Samuel?"
Sam proceeded to the inner office, and found his father dictating into
the attentive ear of Miss Milliken, his elderly and respectable
stenographer, replies to his morning mail.
The grime which encrusted the lawyer's professional stamping ground did
not extend to his person. Sir Mallaby Marlowe was a dapper little man,
with a round, cheerful face and a bright eye. His morning coat had been
cut by London's best tailor, and his trousers perfectly creased by a
sedulous valet. A pink carnation in his buttonhole matched his healthy
complexion. His golf handicap was twelve. His sister, Mrs. Horace
Hignett, considered him worldly.
"Dear Sirs: We are in receipt of your favour and in reply beg to state
that nothing will induce us .
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