Coincident with the arrival of the letter had come one Jose Ferreira, who had been detained for a week at Madrid. Señor Brigot’s mind was occupied with Jose Ferreira when that worthy, smirking apologetically, as though conscious of the shabbiness of his dress-clothes, sidled into a seat on the opposite side of the table. Señor Brigot glared at him a moment, and Jose Ferreira shifted uneasily in his chair.
“If you had telegraphed to me, I would have settled the matter,” said Brigot, as though carrying on a conversation which he had broken off a few minutes before. “Instead, like the fool you are, you come all the way to Paris, wasting your time in Madrid, and the first I hear of the matter is from my son.”
“It was deplorable,” murmured Jose, “but Don Brigot——”
“Don Brigot!” sneered the father of that worthy. “Don Brigot is a monkey! Why did you take notice of him? Have you nothing else to do in Tangier but to look after that flea-ridden theatre? Have you no other duties?”
“The young señor was emphatic,” murmured the apologetic Jose. “He demanded that I should leave and what could I do?”
Brigot grunted something uncomplimentary. Whether it was intended for his son or for Ferreira, it was difficult to say. Ferreira was content to take it to himself.
Half-way through the dinner Brigot became more human.
“There will always be quarrels about women, my good Jose, and it is your business to be diplomatic,” he said. “My son is a fool; but then, all young men are fools. Why should you neglect my interests because Emanuel is a bigger fool than ever? Only this week I intended travelling to Tangier with the representative of a very rich syndicate who wishes to buy my land.”
“The same señor as before?” asked the interested Jose, who was not only the manager of Tangier’s theatre, but was also the representative of the rusty little gold-mining company which Brigot had floated.
The other nodded.