The floor, covered with a soft rug in deep maroon and with tan arabesques in design, contrasted oddly with the green baize of the traveling desk piled with books and portefeuilles. A curiously wrought bronze lamp shed a bright circle of light over it; an unusual article of furniture, it struck Morton, to take on a voyage. It was a handsome thing and he made a mental note to obtain one like it. His glance now rested upon the figure and face of the Count, who had sat himself in his deep, low chair and was resting his hands upon his knees.
“You will forgive an old and ailing man, my dear Mr. Morton, for making the most of his privileges as such. I trust my request to have you call has not inconvenienced you?”
“Not at all, Excellency; I was glad to come.”
“Thank you. It may not be considerate of me to ask you here—but I believe you won’t mind the limited space and closed portholes. I imagine your camp life has accustomed you to a great extent to discomfort and heat. What I want to say to you demands privacy.”
He paused and continued. “Mr. Morton, I beg you to permit me to approach what I wish to say in my own way, even if it may seem odd and unwarranted to you.”
“Go ahead, Your Excellency, I am listening.”
The older man leaned back and pushed a box of cigars toward his visitor. “Won’t you take one? I think you will like the flavor.”
His voice, until now somewhat strained, had become calm, and with an assumed nonchalance of manner, he added:
“I was told by the steward, Mr. Morton, that you had received considerable mail and some cables upon our arrival here. Does the receipt of these in any way alter your plans, which you were so good as to intimate to me the other evening? Pardon the question, but it is necessary that I should know in view of what I wish to say.”
“It does, Your Excellency. My letters from home are of little moment, but a cable, sent some two days ago, I think, tells me that my father’s health is not satisfactory and asks my quick return.”