“Where the devil’s the servant?” he barked at me. “I thought there was a woman, or somebody.”
“There is a very good woman,” I said, “but she goes home before dark. That is,” I corrected myself, “she leaves early. I told your secretary that.”
“Do you suppose she’s left a fire? Gordon!” he called. “Go and see if there’s a fire. I want some hot water.”
He fumbled in a pocket and brought out what I fancy was a beef cube or some similar concoction, and sat with it in his hand.
“Which way does the house face?” he asked, suddenly.
“East. Toward the bay.”
“Then I want a back room. Don’t like the morning sun. Don’t like anything in the morning,” he added, and peered up at me through his spectacles.
Young Gordon returned then with a cup of hot water and a spoon, and Mr. Bethel favored me with
