He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. An ancient smile lay on his lips. ‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. May I know your name?’ The lady eyed him. She opened the door to him herself. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. "Blueskin's a friend in need," he said.
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