Then he opened them to look
with approval on the dark walnut book-cases, the framed prints and
etchings, the bronzed student's lamp on the square table desk, the
rugs on the polished floor. He picked up a magazine, into which he
dipped for ten minutes.
The door opened noiselessly behind him.
"Mr. Newmark, sir," came a respectful voice, "it is just short of
seven."
"Very well," replied Newmark, without looking around.
The man withdrew as softly as he had come. After a moment, Newmark
replaced the magazine on the table, yawned, threw aside the cigar,
of which he had smoked but an inch, and passed from his study into
his bedroom across the hall. This contained an exquisite Colonial
four-poster, with a lowboy and dresser to match, and was papered and
carpeted in accordance with these, its chief ornaments. Newmark
bathed in the adjoining bathroom, shaved carefully between the two
wax lights which were his whim, and dressed in what were then known
as "swallow-tail" clothes. Probably he was the only man in Monrovia
at that moment so apparelled. Then calmly, and with all the
deliberation of one under fire of a hundred eyes, he proceeded to
the dining-room, where waited the man who had a short time before
reminded him of the hour.
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