Ain't you, Brown?"
"Yes, I am, Somers," I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin
case with a snap.
Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling, for that story
about the damp stuck in his throat.
"Orchidist!" whispered the young man. "Dreadful people, orchidists, so
jealous. Very rich, too, both of them. Mr. Brown--I hope that is your
name, though I admit the chances are against it."
"They are," I replied, "my name is Allan Quatermain."
"Ah! much better than Brown. Well, Mr. Allan Quatermain, there's a
private room in this place to which I have admittance. Would you mind
coming with that----" here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past
again, "that case of butterflies?"
"With pleasure," I answered, and followed him out of the auction
chamber down some steps through the door to the left, and ultimately
into a little cupboard-like room lined with shelves full of books and
ledgers.
He closed the door and locked it.
"Now," he said in a tone of the villain in a novel who at last has
come face to face with the virtuous heroine, "now we are alone.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59