It was the second invitation to dinner I had received that day. But, after all, I could hardly suspect a trap in everything.
“Do you share the hopes of the Princess?” I asked M. Petrovitch, after thanking him for his hospitality.
The syndicate-monger nodded.
“I have been working night and day for peace,” he declared impudently, “and I think I may claim that I have done some good. The Japanese are seeking for an excuse to attack us, but they will not get it.”
“The Manchurian Syndicate?” I ventured to hint, rising to go to the bell.
“The Syndicate is wholly in favor of peace,” he assured me, watching my movement with evident curiosity. “We require it, in fact, to develop our mines, our timber concessions, our——”
A waiter entered in response to my ring.
“Bring me some cigarettes—your best,” I ordered him.
As the man retreated it was borne in on my guest that he had been guilty of smoking in my room without offering me his case.
“A thousand pardons!” he exclaimed. “Won’t you try one of mine?”