On the way they exchanged a
few insignificant remarks, having reference to a former intimacy and
a period during which they had not come across each other.
Established in a semi-private room, with a modest stimulant to aid
conversation, they became more at ease; Mr. Scawthorne allowed
himself a discreet smile, and Joseph, fingering his glass, broached
the matter at issue with a cautious question.
'Do you know anything of a man called Snowdon?'
'What Snowdon?'
'Joseph James Snowdon--a friend of mine. Your people advertised
for him about three years ago. Perhaps you haven't been at the
office as long as that?'
'Oh yes. I remember the name. What about him?'
'Your people wanted to find him--something to his advantage. Do
you happen to know whether it's any use his coming forward now?'
Mr. Scawthorne was not distinguished by directness of gaze. He had
handsome features, and a not unpleasant cast of countenance, but
something, possibly the habit of professional prudence, made his
regard coldly, fitfully, absently observant. It was markedly so as
he turned his face towards Joseph whilst the latter was speaking.
After a moment's silence he remarked, without emphasis:
'A relative of yours, you said?'
'No, I said a friend--intimate friend.
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