The answer came from a red-cheeked, clean-shaven, bullet-headed, immaculately upholstered gentleman--( silk scarf, diamond horse-shoe stick-pin, high collar, cut-away coat, speckled-trout waistcoat--everything perfect)--who stood, paring his nails in front of the plate-glass window overlooking the street, and who conveyed news of the elder Breen's whereabouts by a bob of his head and a jerk of his fat forefinger in the direction of the familiar glass door.
Breen sat at his desk when Jack entered, but it was only when he spoke that his uncle looked up;--so many men swung back that door with favors to ask, that spontaneous affability was often bad policy.
"I received your letter, Uncle Arthur," Jack began.
Breen raised his eyes, and a deep color suffused his face.

In his heart he had a sneaking admiration for the boy.

He liked his pluck.

Strange, too, he liked him the better for having left him and striking out for himself, and stranger still, he was a little ashamed for having brought about the revolt.
"Why, Jack!" He was on his feet now, his hand extended, something of his old-time cordiality in his manner.

"You got my letter, did you?
Well, I wanted to talk to you about that ore property.