Perhaps he's deceived himself again."
At eight o'clock the following morning Clem served my breakfast for the
first time since his illness, and I approached it with thanksgiving for
his recovery.
A knock at the door took him from me just as he had poured the first cup
of real coffee I had seen for nearly three months. He came back with the
card of one James Walsingham Price, whom I did not know; whereas I did
know the coffee.
"Fetch him here," I said. "He can't expect me to leave this coffee,
whoever he is."
Into my dining room was then ushered a tall, smartly dressed,
smooth-faced man of perhaps middle age, with yellowish hair compactly
plastered to his head. He became, I thought, suddenly alert as he
crossed my threshold. I arose to greet him.
"This is--" I had to glance at the card.
"Yes--and you're Major Blake? I regret to disturb you, Major,"--here his
glance rested blankly upon the rich golden-brown surface of Clem's
omelette, and it seemed to me that the thread of his intention was
broken for an instant by a fit of absentmindedness. He resumed his
speech only after an appreciable pause, as if the omelette had reminded
him of something.
"The hour is untimely, but I'm told that you're a friend of a Mrs.
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