He writes
like a polite creditor. What did the old fellow say was the matter
with him? heart trouble, or consumption? I can't remember." I threw
the note aside and touched up some of my dispatches.
Precisely at ten o'clock the door opened and a man came in. He was
fashionably dressed, a mixture of Piccadilly and Broadway in taste. He
was tall, slender, but well-formed; and his blonde mustache shone out
distinctly against a background of tanned skin. He had fine blue eyes.
"Have I the pleasure of speaking to John Winthrop of New York?" he
began, taking off his hat.
I rose. "I am the man."
He presented his card, and on it I read, "Philip Pembroke."
"Philip Pembroke!" I exclaimed.
"Evidently you are surprised?" showing a set of strong white teeth.
"Truthfully, I am," I said, taking his hand. "You see," I added,
apologetically, "your family lawyer--that is--he gave me
the--er--impression that you were a sickly fellow--one foot in the
grave, or something like. I was not expecting a man of your build."
The smile broadened into a deep laugh, and a merry one, I thought,
enviously.
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