Therefore his non-arrival, his half hour of irregularity, seemed all the more extraordinary.
"Never knew him to be late before—never!" exclaimed the business manager, impatiently pulling out his watch for the twentieth time. "Not in all my ten years' experience of him—not once.'
"I suppose you've seen him this morning, Mr. Stafford?" inquired Jerramy. "He's in the town, of course?"
"I suppose he's in the town," answered Mr. Stafford. "I suppose he's at his old quarters—the 'Angel.' But I haven't seen him; neither had Rothwell—we've both been too busy to call there. I expect he came on to the 'Angel' from Northborough yesterday."
Jerramy opened the half-door, and going out to the end of the passage, looked up and down the street.
"There's a taxi-cab coming round the corner now," he announced presently. "Coming quick, too—I should think he's in it."
The business manager bustled out to the pavement as the cab came to a halt. But instead of the fine face and distinguished presence of Mr. Bassett Oliver, he found himself confronting a young man who looked like a well-set-up subaltern, or a cricket-and-football loving undergraduate; a somewhat shy, rather nervous young man, scrupulously groomed, and neatly attired in tweeds, who, at sight of the two men on the pavement, immediately produced a card-case.
"Mr. Bassett Oliver?" he said inquiringly. "Is
