The man at once began to speak in a quiet and respectful
voice.
"Are you Mr. Blake?" he asked.
"I am."
"Mr. Arthur Blake?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Arthur _Herbert_ Blake?" persisted the other, with emphasis on the
middle name.
"That is my full name," Blake answered simply, adding, as he remembered
his manners; "but won't you sit down, first, please?"
The man advanced with a curious sideways motion like a crab and took a
seat on the edge of the sofa. He put his hat on the floor at his feet,
but still kept the bag in his hand.
"I come to you from a well-wisher," he went on in oily tones, without
lifting his eyes. Blake, in his mind, ran quickly over all the people he
knew in New York who might possibly have sent such a man, while waiting
for him to supply the name. But the man had come to a full stop and was
waiting too.
"A well-wisher of _mine_?" repeated Blake, not knowing quite what else
to say.
"Just so," replied the other, still with his eyes on the floor. "A
well-wisher of yours."
"A man or--" he felt himself blushing, "or a woman?"
"That," said the man shortly, "I cannot tell you.
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