"The man I went to see is dead—murdered, just after he mailed that report. So I have no information. These police called it suicide because a knife lay in his hand. Bah! I could place a knife in the hand of any man I kill!"
"Was he a friend of yours?"
"No. I have never seen him. But he knew something!"
"He evidently knew too much," Tommy suggested.
"You speak true, my boy. It seems to be a dangerous thing here to know too much of certain matters!"
"Well," I laughed, trying to put a heartiness in my voice and drive away his depression, "let's go ashore for dinner! Then the Opera—and afterwards another bite where the high life eats? What-say, Professor?"
As it turned out, however, neither the dinner, nor all of Tommy's banter, nor Madame Butterfly sung in Spanish (as if it could!) succeeded in restoring Monsieur to a normal temper.
"We've simply got to make him laugh," I whispered to Tommy. "It's a matter of principle now!"
"Then wait till we have supper, and get him soused," my confederate cautiously replied. "That'll do it. But you'd better not drink much," he added. "How are the nerves this evening?"
"I've almost forgotten them," I answered.