The movement on the other side of the door ceased, and after a pause a
voice asked who was there. Holcombe hesitated a second before
answering, and then said, "It is a servant, sir, with a note for Mr.
Allen."

At the sound of some one moving toward the door from within, Holcombe
threw his shoulder against the panel and pressed forward. There was
the click of the key turning in the lock and of the withdrawal of a
bolt, and the door was partly opened. Holcombe pushed it back with his
shoulder, and, stepping quickly inside, closed it again behind him.

The man within, into whose presence he had forced himself, confronted
him with a look of some alarm, which increased in surprise as he
recognized his visitor. "Why, Holcombe!" he exclaimed. He looked past
him as though expecting some one else to follow. "I thought it was a
servant," he said.

Holcombe made no answer, but surveyed the other closely, and with a
smile of content. The man before him was of erect carriage, with white
hair and whiskers, cut after an English fashion which left the mouth
and chin clean shaven. He was of severe and dignified appearance, and
though standing as he was in dishabille still gave in his bearing the
look of an elderly gentleman who had lived a self-respecting,
well-cared-for, and well-ordered life. The room about him was littered
with the contents of opened trunks and uncorded boxes. He had been
interrupted in the task of unpacking and arranging these possessions,
but he stepped unresentfully toward the bed where his coat lay, and
pulled it on, feeling at the open collar of his shirt, and giving a
glance of apology toward the disorder of the apartment.