about 8 p.m.
He was silently reading over a document engrossed on bluish hand-made folio ; not a lengthy document -- nineteen lines , to be precise . And he was reading very slowly and carefully , chiefly to oblige the man standing behind his chair . This man , whose age might have been anything between forty and fifty , and whose colouring was dark and a trifle florid , would probably have evoked the epithet of `` handsome '' on the operatic stage , and in any city but London that of `` distinguished . '' In London , however , you could hardly fail to find his like in one or other of the west-end restaurants about 8 p.m. Francis Bullard , standing erect in the sunshine , a shade over-fed looking , but perfectly groomed in his regulation city garb , an enigmatic smile under his neat black moustache as he watched the reader , suggested nothing ugly or mean , nothing worse , indeed , than worldly prosperity and a frank enjoyment thereof . His well-kept fingers toyed with a little gold nugget depending from his watch chain -- his only ornament . The third man was seated in a capacious leather-covered , easy chair by the hearth . Leaning forward , he held his palms to the fire , though not near enough for them to have derived much warmth .