J. S. Fletcher

“ Somewhere behind him, a man, taking long rapid strides, was advancing across the lawn beneath the terrace.
There was a powerful lamp just within the big doorway: its rays spread fanwise across the terrace and over the steps which led to the lawn. As Braxfield lingered, wondering who it was that approached (for visitors of any sort were rare at Markenmore Court in those days) a tall figure strode into this arc of light and moved hurriedly up the steps, making for the door—the figure of a big, athletic man, whose evening clothes were only partly concealed by a light, unbuttoned overcoat. ”

“ He stretched out his right hand, laughing.
"Hello, Braxfield!" he said cheerily, in the tone of one who greets an ancient acquaintance. "That you? Still going it as strong as ever, eh? You don't look a day older."
"Men don't alter much at my age, sir," replied Braxfield, shaking the offered hand respectfully. "That comes a bit later, Mr. Harborough. But—you're really back, sir? I hadn't heard of it—still, we don't hear very much our way, now—quieter than ever at Markenmore Court, sir."
"I only got home this afternoon, Braxfield," answered Harborough. ”

“ But the Markenmores, easily as they allowed their butler to rule them in certain things, were folk who would not permit interference with time-honoured custom and arrangement, and so gold cups and silver salvers, meticulously polished and carefully dusted, glittered in careless profusion on the massive oak sideboards, and rare ivories and priceless china stood on the open presses and ancient cabinets—as if, said Braxfield plaintively, they were of no more value than the trumpery things arranged in the museum of the neighbouring market-town. ”