“Well, you don’t seem anxious to give the alarm,” said Wilson, toying with the little automatic and turning it over in the expanse of his palm.
“No, I’m afraid it might make you nervous.”
“Might make me so nervous that this gun would go off, eh?”
A shadow of the old smile came back as he went stealthily to the door and listened.
“You seem to enjoy smoking,” said the peer of art collectors, turning his back to Gladwin.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you time to smoke a cigar?”
“Is it a good one?”