I followed him along as miserable a passage as ever I saw in my life. The walls were damp, and the paper hung down here and there in long, untidy patches. The ceiling was barely whitewashed; the stairs by which we passed were uncarpeted. The whole place had a most dejected and weary appearance. Then he showed me into a small sitting-room, in which one man sat writing at a table. He looked up as I entered. It was Delora.
"Well," he said, "so this is how you keep your promise!"
"Something has happened since then," I answered. "I have received a cable from my brother which we do not understand."
"A cable from your brother in Brazil?" he asked slowly.
"Yes!" I answered.
Delora turned slowly in his chair and rose to his feet. He was tall and gaunt. His face was lined. He had somehow or other the appearance of a man who is driven to bay. Yet there was something splendid about the way he nerved himself to listen to me with indifference.
"What does he say—your brother?"
"The cable is inspired by Nicholas Delora," I answered. "Listen, and I will read it to you."
I read it to him word by word. When I had finished he simply nodded.
"Is that all?" he asked.