The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. It was a hoax, it was the only thing possible, until she heard Cathy say, “Let me hold those for you. "Shir Rowland Trenchard's affair— eh?" "That's it," rejoined Jonathan; "I expect him here every minute.
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