So he walked along by himself, elate, and with a springy step, on
thoughts of ambition intent, till he came at last to a cool and
shadowy place, where as yet the ferns were NOT broken down and
trampled underfoot, though Guy Waring found them so some twenty
minutes later.
At that spot he looked up, and saw advancing along the path in the
opposite direction the burly figure of a man, in a light tourist
suit, whom he hadn't yet observed since he came to Mambury. The
very first point he noticed about the man, long before he recognised
him, was a pair of overgrown, obtrusive hands held somewhat awkwardly
in front of him--just like Gilbert Gildersleeve's. The likeness,
indeed, was so ridiculously close that Montague Nevitt smiled quietly
to himself to observe it. If he'd been in the Tilgate district now,
he'd have declared, without the slightest hesitation, that the man
on the path WAS Gilbert Gildersleeve.
One second later, he pulled himself up with a jerk in alarmed
surprise. "Great heavens" he cried to himself, a weird sense of
awe creeping over him piece-meal, "either this is a dream or else
it IS, it must be Gilbert Gildersleeve."
And so, indeed, it was. Gilbert Gildersleeve himself, in his proper
person.
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