His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child.
“The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied. “I know nothing of these things.”
Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted. His vis-a-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class.
“Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?”
“One or two days—a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer. “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend my holiday here, perhaps.”
“Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly. “The English country under a foot of snow! So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?”
“I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply. “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.”
The latter rose to his feet. Dominey had already turned towards the door.
“You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited. “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.”
“I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply. “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.”