Lutchester shrugged his shoulders.
“Whatever you may be,” he concluded, “and
however much you may resent all that has happened,
I know that you will wait. I might go direct to
Washington, but I prefer to come to you, if it remains
possible. Before you leave this country we will
meet again, and, when you have heard me, you will
tear that letter which you are treasuring next your
heart into small pieces.”
Lutchester turned and left the room, closing the door
behind him. Nikasti crouched in his place without
movement. The ache in his heart seemed to be
shining out of his face. He turned slowly towards
the little figure of black ivory, his head drooped
lower—he was filled with a great shame.
Fischer raised his eyebrows in mild surprise to find
Nikasti waiting for him in the sitting room that evening,
with his overcoat and evening hat. He closed
the door of the bedroom from which he had issued carefully
behind him.
“You don’t need to go on with this business
now that we have had our little talk,” he remonstrated.
“I cannot leave until the twentieth,”
Nikasti replied. “I think it best that
I remain here. Your cocktail, sir.”
Fischer accepted the glass with a good-humoured little
laugh.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose you
know what you want to do, but it seems to me unnecessary.
Say, is anything wrong with you? You seem shaken,
somehow.”
“I am quite well,” Nikasti declared gravely.
“I am very well indeed.”
Fischer stared at him searchingly from behind his
spectacles.
“You don’t look it,” he observed.
“If you’ll take my advice, you’ll
get away from here and rest somewhere quietly for
a few days. Why don’t you try one of the
summer hotels on Long Island?”
Nikasti shook his head.
“Until I sail,” he decided, “I stay
here. It is better so.”
“You know best, of course,” Fischer replied.
“Where’s Mr. Van Teyl?”
“He has gone out with his sister, sir—the
young lady in the next suite,” Nikasti announced.
Fischer sighed for a moment. Then he finished
his cocktail, drew on his gloves, and turned towards
the door.
“Well, good night,” he said. “Perhaps
you are wise to stay here. Remember always what
it is that you carry about with you.”
“I shall remember,” Nikasti promised.
Fischer entered his automobile and drove to a fashionable
restaurant in the neighbourhood of Fifth Avenue.
Arrived here, he made his way to a room on the first
floor, into which he was ushered by one of the head
waiters. Von Schwerin was already there, talking
with a little company of men.
“Ah, our friend Fischer!” the latter exclaimed.
“That makes our number complete.”
A waiter handed around cocktails. Fischer smiled
as he raised his glass to his lips.
“It is something, at least,” he confided,
“to be back in a country where one can speak
freely. I raise my arm. Von Schwerin and
gentlemen—’To the Fatherland!’”
