'How is your
mother's rheumatism?' she said."
The author's labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of a
maidservant.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, handing a card with the
name Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; "says it's important."
Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor's mission
was probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the name
Caiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience.
Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, cold
grey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He had
a large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that he
had left a package of similar volumes in the hall. He took a seat before
it had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began to
address Mellowkent in the manner of an "open letter."
"You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books--"
"I am engage on a book at the present moment--rather busily engaged,"
said Mellowkent, pointedly.
"Exactly," said the intruder; "time with you is a commodity of
considerable importance. Minutes, even, have their value."
"They have," agreed Mellowkent, looking at his watch.
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