The young man looked abashed, smiled nervously, propped the spectacles on his nose with a long thin forefinger, cleared his throat, and said:
‘ Mr Grant? My name is Carradine. Brent Carradine. I hope I haven’t disturbed you when you were resting.’
[Pg 91] ‘No, no. Come in, Mr Carradine. I am delighted to see you.’
‘ Marta—Miss Hallard, that is—sent me. She said I could be of some help to you.’
‘ Did she say how? Do sit down. You’ll find a chair over there behind the door. Bring it over.’
He was a tall boy, hatless, with soft fair curls crowning a high forehead and a much too big tweed coat hanging unfastened round him in negligent folds, American-wise. Indeed, it was obvious that he was in fact American. He brought over the chair, planted himself on it with the coat spread rou
