“I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Holland,” Sweeting went on. “You are Mr. Holland? There were some letters in the hall I glanced at: they were addressed to you, or have I made a mistake?”
Ken was in no state to attempt to bluff. His mind was paralysed with panic.
“What do you want?” he said hoarsely.
“Just a few minutes with you,” Sweeting said, stroking Leo’s head with his finger-tip. “Perhaps we could sit down? I have had a very tiring day. I won’t keep you long. It’s a business matter.” He looked into the lounge. “That looks most comfortable. Shall we go in there?”
Without waiting, he walked into the lounge.
“How very nice!” he said, looking around. “How very pleasant ! I envy you, Mr. Holland, having such a delightful home.” His beady little eyes went to the silver-framed photograph of Ann. “Is that your wife? What a charming girl ! How pretty ! She isn’t in, is she?”
Ken watched this fat, oily little man walking around his lounge as if he owned it. He was slowly recovering from the shock of finding him in his home. How had Sweeting found him? What was going to happen? Was he going to blackmail him?
“Oh, and I see you keep whisky in your house,” Sweeting said, pausing beside the liquor cabinet. “How pleasant! You know, Mr. Holland, I have always wanted to own one of these cabinets. They are so useful, and they do establish a standard, don’t they? I’m afraid I haven’t been a great success in my life. Some people are a lot more fortunate than others. Would it be discourteous of me if I had a drink? With a whisky and a comfortable chair one can always discuss a business proposition more congenially, don’t you think?”
He set Leo down on the couch, poured himself a big shot of whisky, carried the glass to an armchair and sat down. He took off his hat, which he placed on the floor at his side and drank of the whisky.
“Most refreshing,” he said, looking up at Ken. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Holland?”