At present, within the inhospitable waiting-room (a lofty slate-coloured apartment, with heavily barred windows), a well set-up young Englishman was unnecessarily pacing the worn cocoanut matting. His thin cashmere suit, and Panama hat, indicated the recent efforts of a London tailor to cope with a warm climate. The white-covered umbrella which he carried in his hand was also new—indeed, its owner himself was new to the country, having arrived the previous evening.
At the moment, the stranger was impatiently awaiting an interview with the acting representatives of Brown and Brown—but apparently these were in no hurry to receive him.
Meanwhile, in a spacious inner office, Mr. Fleming, a stout, sleek personage with a bald head and heavy face, had been handed a visiting-card by his partner—Mr. Parr—a shrivelled little gentleman known indifferently as "Monkey Parr," or "Old Nick," for Anglo-India delights in nicknames.
"Captain Mallender, Army and Navy Club," he read aloud, then staring hard at his companion, gave a low and distinctly unofficial whistle.
"Oh, yes," responded Mr. Parr, removing his pince-nez with a decisive click. "Same name, same club. I can tell you, that it gave me a nasty shock; but, of course, here is the heir, now his father is dead, come out to nose about, and make enquiries."
"He may enquire till he's blue—he will find that he has undertaken a fool's errand. Why can't the young ass leave well alone?" demanded Mr. Fleming testily.
"Because he doesn't believe things are well, sharply rejoined his partner.
"And intends to better them, eh? If he is not mighty careful, he will lose his half-loaf; and anyway it's a deuced nuisance; a very awkward business—we shall have the fellow in and out all day, bothering for information."
