In a room more than temperately cool he was
sweating profusely, and that, despite the fact that his light
overcoat was on his arm. Not polite perspiration, be it noted, such
as would have been excusable in a gentleman of his pale and sleek
plumpness, but soul-wrung sweat, the globules whereof gathered in
the grayish hollows under his eyes and assailed, not without effect,
the glistening expanse of his tall white collar. He darted a glance
at Bertram, then turned to Average Jones.
"I had hoped for a private interview," he said in a high piping
voice.
"Mr. Bertram is my friend and business confidant."
"Very good. You--you have read it?"
"Yes."
"Then--then--then--" The visitor fumble with nerveless fingers, at
his tightly buttoned cut-away coat. It resisted his efforts.
Suddenly, with a snarl of exasperation, he dragged violently at the
lapel, tearing the button outright from the cloth. "Look what I
have done," he said, staring stupidly for a moment at the button
which had shot across the room.
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