Sir Richard Dyson entered. He was dressed quietly, but with the perfect taste which was obviously an instinct with him, and he wore a big bunch of violets in his buttonhole. Nevertheless, the spring sunshine seemed to find out the lines in his face. His eyes were baggy—he had aged even within the last few months.
“Well, Mr. Ruff,” he said, shaking hands, “how goes it?”
“I am very well, Sir Richard,” Peter Ruff answered. “Please take a chair.”
Sir Richard took the easy-chair, and discovering a box of cigarettes upon the table, helped himself. Then his eyes fell upon Miss Brown.
“Can’t do without your secretary?” he remarked.
“Impossible!” Peter Ruff answered. “As I told you before, I am her guarantee that what you say to me, or before her, is spoken as though to the dead.”
Sir Richard nodded.
“Just as well,” he remarked, “for I am going to talk about a man who I wish were dead!”
“There are few of us,” Peter Ruff said, “who have not our enemies.”
“Have you any experience of blackmailers?” Sir Richard asked.