"Everything all right."
"In God's name, then! Come along Mr. Falk."
They entered a room the walls of which were lined with shelves, filled with piles of books. The mask touched them with his horsewhip and said proudly:
"I've written those! What do you think of that? Isn't it a lot? You, too, write—a little. If you stick to it, you might write as much."
He bit and tore at his cigar and spat out the tiny flakes which filled the air like flies and settled on the backs of the books. His face wore a look of contempt.
"The Torch of Reconciliation! Hm! I think it's a stupid name! Don't you rather agree with me? What made you think of it?"
For the first time Falk had a chance of getting in a word, for like all great men, the mask answered his own questions. His reply was in the negative but he got no further; the mask again usurped the conversation.
"I think it's a very stupid name. And do you really believe that it will draw?"
"I know nothing whatever about the matter; I don't know what you are talking about."
"You don't know?"