The maid--her name, not that it matters, was Susan, and she was engaged
to be married, though the point is of no importance, to the second
assistant at Green's Grocery Stores in Windlehurst--approached Mr.
Bennett.
"Please, sir, a gentleman to see you."
"Eh?" said Mr. Bennett, torn from a dream of large pink slices edged
with bread-crumbed fat. "Eh?"
"A gentleman to see you, sir. In the drawing-room. He says you are
expecting him."
"Of course, yes. To be sure."
Mr. Bennett heaved himself out of the deck-chair. Beyond the French
windows he could see an indistinct form in a gray suit, and remembered
that this was the morning on which Sir Mallaby Marlowe's clerk--who was
taking those Schultz and Bowen papers for him to America--had
written that he would call. To-day was Friday; no doubt the man was
sailing from Southampton to-morrow.
He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Jno.
Peters with an expression on his ill-favored face, which looked like
one of consternation, of uneasiness, even of alarm.
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