and a moment later they were ushered into the presence of his employer.
Mr. Pankhurst's age appeared to be something over sixty. He was bald, possibly from mental concentration, and obese probably from over-eating and lack of exercise. His voice was fruity, his manner obsequious, his smile that of a fat devil. He wore a light grey morning coat, a white piqué waistcoat, black and white check trousers, white spats, patent-leather shoes, purple socks, a purple tie with a big pink pearl in it, a neat little up-and-down collar, white with a thin black stripe, and a soft-fronted shirt to match, an undervest of pale blue silk and wool, pants ditto ditto, purple sock suspenders, a Jaeger ceinture, a bloodstone signet ring, and a porous plaster.
Chloë did the talking. "Mr. Pankhurst," she said, "I am the daughter of
