He produced the one official card that remained with him, the one worn and dog-eared and once water-soaked Deputy-Commissioner's card which still remained in his dog-eared wallet. "I 've got to see him on business, Departmental business!"
"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet."
"Then I 'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler note in the voice of the man in the service-coat.
"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, switching on the electrics as he went.
Blake found himself in what seemed to be a library. About this softly hung room he peered with an acute yet heavy disdain, with an indeterminate envy which he could not control. It struck him as being feminine and over fine, that shadowy room with all its warm hangings and polished wood. It stood for a base of life with which he had no patience. And he kept telling himself that it had not
