It was a big sunny room. The long windows looked out on a formal
garden, great beech trees and the bow of the river. Within it
was a sort of library. There were bookcases built into the wall,
to the height of a man's head, and at intervals between them,
rising from the floor to the cornice of the shelves, were rows of
mahogany drawers with glass knobs. There was also a flat writing
table.
It was the room of a traveler, a man of letters, a dreamer. On
the table were an inkpot of carved jade, a paperknife of ivory
with gold butterflies set in; three bronze storks, with their
backs together, held an exquisite Japanese crystal.
The room was in disorder - the drawers pulled out and the
contents ransacked.
My father stood leaning against the casement of the window,
looking out. The lawyer, Mr. Lewis, sat in a chair beside the
table, his eyes on the violated room.
"Pendleton," he said, "I don't like this English man Gosford."
The words seemed to arouse my father out of the depths of some
reflection, and he turned to the lawyer, Mr. Lewis.
"Gosford!" he echoed.
"He is behind this business, Pendleton," the lawyer, Mr.
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