Where the Path Breaks. Williamson Charles Norris
thick gray eyebrows, he made a distressful signal of warning. It would be awkward for Mr. Sibley to be trapped and buttonholed here, just as he had been officially described as out. McNutt could not remember the boss ever coming back after he had gone for the day, and appearing in the publicity of the reception room. If he had forgotten something, why didn’t he let himself in at the door of his own private office, which was only a little further along the hall? But, there he was, and must be protected.
“Who is Mr. Elliot?” enquired the stranger.
Eversedge Sibley spent a short holiday in England every summer, and knew that the vilely dressed man had the accent of the British upper classes. His curiosity grew with what it fed on.
“Mr. Elliot is the third partner in the firm,” explained McNutt, to whom such ignorance appeared disgraceful.
“Thank you, I’d rather wait until to-morrow and try to see Mr. Sibley himself,” said Denin.
“I am Mr. Sibley,” the publisher confessed, on one of his irresistible impulses. “I’ve just come back for something forgotten. I can give you a few minutes if you like.”
The man’s face lit. It could never have been anything but plain, almost ugly, even before the scars came; yet it was singularly arresting. “That’s very good of you,” he said.
Sibley ushered the odd visitor into his own private office, but before he could even be invited to sit down, Denin got to his errand.
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