Somehow, it looked ominous. His
first impression was to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted any
first impression. It was the excuse of mediocrity, a sign of weakness.
Moreover, why shouldn't he meet Isidor G. Ingerman?
"Show him in," he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition, as
it were. He threw the card on the table.
Mr. Ingerman entered. He did not offer any conventional greeting, but
nodded, or bowed. Grant could not be sure which form of salutation was
intended, because the visitor promptly sat down, uninvited.
Minnie hesitated at the door. Her master's callers were usually cheerful
Bohemians, who chatted at sight. Then she caught Grant's eye, and went
out, banging the door in sheer nervousness.
Still Mr. Ingerman did not speak. If this was a pose on his part, he
erred. Grant had passed through a trying day, but he owned the muscles
and nerves of an Alpine climber, and had often stared calmly down a wall
of rock and ice which he had just conquered, when the least slip would
have meant being dashed to pieces two thousand feet below.
There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It enabled
him to take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish's husband, if, indeed, the
visitor was really the man he professed to be.
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