but it was of a different stamp. It was old-fashioned and had seen much wear. The wearer, too, was taller than the ordinary run of men, but it was noticeable that his hair was snow-white, and that his face was deeply pitted with smallpox. After disposing of their hats and coats in an ante-room, they reached room No. 22, where they found the gentleman in clerical costume pacing impatiently up and down.
Left alone, the tallest of the trio, who for want of a better title we may call the Best Dressed Man, took out his watch and having looked at it, glanced at his companions.
"Gentlemen," he said with a slight American accent, "it is three minutes to eight o'clock. My name is Eastover!"
"I'm glad to hear it, for I'm most uncommonly hungry," said the next tallest, whom I have already described as being so marked by disease. "My name is Prendergast!"
"We only wait for our friend and host," remarked the clerical gentleman, as if he felt he ought to take a share in the conversation, and then, as if an afterthought had struck him, he continued, "My name is Baxter!"
They shook hands all round with marked cordiality, seated themselves again, and took it in turns to examine the clock.
"Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting our host before?" asked Mr. Baxter of Mr. Prendergast.
"Never," replied that gentleman with a shake of his head. "Perhaps Mr. Eastover has been more fortunate?"
"Not I," was the brief rejoinder. "I've had to do with him off and on for longer than I care to reckon, but I've never set eyes on him up to date."
