So he advanced to meet his old acquaintance, the barrister, with
frankly outstretched hand.
"Mr. Gildersleeve!" he exclaimed in some surprise. "No, it can't
be you. Well, this IS indeed an unexpected pleasure."
Gilbert Gildersleeve gazed down upon him from the towering elevation
of his six feet four. Montague Nevitt was tall enough, as men
go in England, but with his slim, tailor-made form, and his waxed
moustaches, he looked by the side of that big-built giant, like
a: Bond Street exquisite before some prize-fighting Goliath. The
barrister didn't hold out his huge hand in return. On the contrary,
he concealed it, as far as was possible, behind his burly back,
and, looking down from the full height of his contempt upon the
sinister smirking creature who advanced to greet him with that
false smile on his face, he asked severely,
"What are YOU doing here? That's what _I_ have to ask. What foxy
ferreting have you come down to Mambury for?"
"Foxy ferreting," Montague Nevitt repeated, drawing back as if
stung, and profoundly astonished. "Why, what do you mean by that,
Mr. Gildersleeve? I don't understand you." The home-thrust was too
true--after the great cross-examiner's well-known bullying manner
--not to pierce him to the quick.
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