Evealed a large, bare, yellow-papered apartment with a dark-cla

[Sortore]

Aid Grant. "I'll bet you'll see something extraordinary in what we're
doing instead." I looked at him blankly. "Doing instead?" I asked. "What
are we doing instead?" "Why," said he, "we are waiting for one or two
hours outside this house on a winter evening. You must forgive me; it is
all my vanity. It is only to show you that I am right. Can you, with the
assistance of this cigar, wait until both Sir Walter Cholmondeliegh and
the mystic Wimpole have left this house?" "Certainly," I said. "But I do
not know which is likely to leave first. Have you any notion?" "No," he
said. "Sir Walter may leave first in a glow of rage. Or again, Mr
Wimpole may leave first, feeling that his last epigram is a thing to be
flung behind him like a firework. And Sir Walter may remain some time to
analyse Mr Wimpole's character. But they will both have to leave within
reasonable time, for they will both have to get dressed and come back to
dinner here tonight." As he spoke the shrill double whistle from the
porch of the great house drew a dark cab to the dark portal. And then a
thing happened that we really had not expected. Mr Wimpole and Sir
Walter Cholmondeliegh came out at the same moment. They paused for a
second or two opposite each other in a natural doubt; then a certain
geniality, fundamental perhaps in both of them, made Si
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