Crittenden were a widow with a small income from some impersonal
source with no uncomfortable human associations with it. He recalled
with a sad cynicism the story Mrs. Crittenden had told them about the
clever and forceful lawyer who had played the dirty trick on the farmer
here in Ashley, and done him out of his wood-land. She had been very
much wrought up about that, the poor lady, without having the least idea
that probably her husband's business-life was full of such
knifings-in-the-back, all with the purpose of making a quiet life for
her and the children.
Well, there was nothing for it but to go on. It wouldn't last long, and
Mr. Welles' back was practised in bowing to weather he didn't like but
which passed if you waited a while.
They were going up the hall now, towards a door marked "Office," the
children scampering ahead. The door was opening. The tall man who stood
there, nodding a welcome to them, must be Mr. Crittenden.
So that was the kind of man he was. Nothing special about him. Just a
nice-looking American business-man, with a quiet, calm manner and a
friendly face.
To the conversation which followed and which, like all such
conversations, amounted to nothing at all, Mr. Welles made no
contribution. What was the use? Mr. Bayweather and Vincent were there.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233