He was a solemn, dignified man, whose
like was not to be found elsewhere this side the city. He, too,
wore the "swallow-tail," but its buttons were of gilt.
Newmark seated himself in a leather-upholstered mahogany chair
before a small, round, mahogany table. The room was illuminated
only by four wax candles with red shades. They threw into relief
the polish of mahogany, the glitter of glass, the shine of silver,
but into darkness the detail of massive sideboard, dull panelling,
and the two or three dark-toned sporting prints on the wall.
"You may serve dinner, Mallock," said Newmark.
He ate deliberately and with enjoyment the meal, exquisitely
prepared and exquisitely presented to him. With it he drank a
single glass of Burgundy--a deed that would, in the eyes of
Monrovia, have condemned him as certainly as driving a horse on
Sunday or playing cards for a stake. Afterward he returned to the
study, whither Mallock brought coffee. He lit another cigar, opened
a drawer in his desk, extracted therefrom some bank-books and small
personal account books. From these he figured all the evening. His
cigar went out, but he did not notice that, and chewed away quite
contentedly on the dead butt.
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