“Help yourself,” I told him; and he did, generously. Russians can all drink like fish, and this one took half a tumbler of brandy and very nearly forgot all about the water. Then leisurely he lit a cigar, and having got rid of the waiter’s curious eyes, rose and locked the door, and tossed the key on the table.
“You may have another brother, monsieur, and he would not be so welcome;” and with a fresh smile he sat down again and puffed away in silence.
“A good cigar,” he said appreciatively.
His coolness was amazing.
“You said you were going to talk—well, talk, and say what you want.”
“I want to do you a good service, monsieur; I am your friend.”
“Never mind that, what do you want?”
He took up his glass and looked at the liquor in it deliberately.
“A toast, monsieur. To the memory of—M. Vastic,” and he tossed off half the liquor at a gulp. “You do not drink?”
“No; I’m waiting for you to speak.”