It had the usual appearance of being,
not a private house, but a sort of public building sent into exile
in the provinces.
He first found himself in the presence of the butler, who really
looked much older than the building, for the architecture was dated
as Georgian; but the man's face, under a highly unnatural brown wig,
was wrinkled with what might have been centuries. Only his prominent
eyes were alive and alert, as if with protest. Fisher glanced at
him, and then stopped and said:
"Excuse me. Weren't you with the late squire, Mr. Hawker?"
"Yes, sir," said the man, gravely. "Usher is my name. What can I do
for you?"
"Only take me into Sir Francis Verner," replied the visitor.
Sir Francis Verner was sitting in an easy chair beside a small table
in a large room hung with tapestries. On the table were a small
flask and glass, with the green glimmer of a liqueur and a cup of
black coffee. He was clad in a quiet gray suit with a moderately
harmonious purple tie; but Fisher saw something about the turn of
his fair mustache and the lie of his flat hair--it suddenly revealed
that his name was Franz Werner.
"You are Mr. Horne Fisher," he said. "Won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you," replied Fisher. "I fear this is not a friendly
occasion, and I shall remain standing.
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