I accompanied Adderley to his chambers, which were within a
stone's throw of the spot where I had met him. That this gift
for making himself unpopular with all and sundry, high and low,
had not deserted him, was illustrated by the attitude of the
liftman as we entered the hall of the chambers. He was barely
civil to Adderley and even regarded myself with marked disfavour.
We were admitted by Adderley's man, whom I had not seen before,
but who was some kind of foreigner, I think a Portuguese. It was
characteristic of Adderley. No Englishman would ever serve him
for long, and there had been more than one man in his old Company
who had openly avowed his intention of dealing with Adderley on
the first available occasion.
His chambers were ornately furnished; indeed, the room in which
we sat more closely resembled a scene from an Oscar Asche
production than a normal man's study. There was something unreal
about it all. I have since thought that this unreality extended
to the person of the man himself. Grossly material, he yet
possessed an aura of mystery, mystery of an unsavoury sort.
There was something furtive, secretive, about Adderley's entire
mode of life.
I had never felt at ease in his company, and now as I sat staring
wonderingly at the strange and costly ornaments with which the
room was overladen I bethought me of the object of my visit.
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