Elkin had returned when the detective reached the house, a somewhat
pretentious place, half farm, half villa, and altogether horsey. The
entrance hall bristled with fox masks and brushes. A useful collection of
burnished bits and snaffles hung on a side wall. A couple of stuffed
badgers held two wicker stands for sticks and umbrellas, and whips and
hunting-crops were ranged on hooks beneath a 12-bore and a rook rifle.
A pert maid-servant took Furneaux's card, blanched when she read it, and
forgot to close the door of the dining-room. Hence, the detective heard
Elkin's gruff comments:
"What? _That_ chap? Wants to see me? Not more than I want to see him.
Show him in."
Furneaux, looking very meek and mild, entered an apartment of the
carpet-bag upholstery period. A set of six exceedingly good and rare
sporting prints caught his eye.
"Good day," he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a boiled
egg. "You're feeling better, I'm glad to see."
Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as to
his health demands a certain note of civility in return.
"Yes," he said. "Sit down. Will you join me?"
"I'll have a cup of tea, with pleasure," said Furneaux.
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