He was dressed as on the night before, and his precious high hat was hugged close to his shoulder.
His eyes roved with an exaggerated assumption of important cunning. Presently he threw over his shoulder a rapid sentence in a foreign tongue. It sounded like Spanish, and Orme inferred that it was a dialect of Portuguese.
The answer came from an oily tongue; the voice was Alcatrante’s.
What were the South Americans doing here? It was only a few hours since the Japanese had set on Alcatrante, yet here he was in a stronghold of the enemy—and expected! Had the astute diplomat fallen into a trap?
Arima was standing, not far from Poritol. His face was expressionless. Looking from Alcatrante to Poritol and back again, he said in English: “The mos’ honorable gentleman will soon be here.”
“That is right,” said Alcatrante suavely. “Mention no names.”
Arima nodded slightly.
The silence grew intense. Orme was relieved when it was broken by another ring of the bell, and Arima slipped to the door. Alcatrante moved over beside Poritol and whispered a few words, scarcely moving his lips. His face looked yellow by daylight, and the eyes behind the gold spectacles were heavy-lidded and almost closed. Orme inferred that the night had been sleepless for Alcatrante.
These observations were interrupted by the entrance of the newcomer. He paused at the threshold, evidently to salute, for Poritol and Alcatrante bowed low. Then quick steps crossed the floor and into view came a nervous but assured-looking little figure—a Japanese, but undoubtedly a man of great dignity. His manner of sharp authority would be hard to dispute, for it was supported by a personality that seemed to be stronger than Alcatrante’s. Who he was Orme could not guess, but that he was somebody of importance it was easy to see.
The stranger bowed again and addressed himself to Alcatrante. The conversation was carried on in French.