Jesse Trasmere grunted again.
“A man is coming from China, and I don’t want to see him,” he explained. He was oddly communicative at moments to his servant, but Walters, who knew his master extremely well, did not make the mistake of asking questions. “No, I don’t want to see him,” the old man chewed a tooth-pick reflectively and his unattractive face bore an expression of distaste. “He was a partner of mine, twenty, thirty years ago, a card-playing, gambling, drinking man, who gave himself airs because—well, never mind what he gave himself airs about,” he said impatiently, as though he anticipated a question which he should have known never would have been put to him. “He was that kind of man.”
He stared at the fireless grate with its red brick walls and its microscopic radiator and clicked his lips.
“If he comes, he is not to be admitted. If he asks questions, you’re not to answer. You know nothing ... about anybody. Why he’s coming at all ... well, that doesn’t matter. He’s just trash, a soakin’ dope. He had his chance, got under it and went to sleep. Phew! That fellow! He might have been rich, but he sold ... and sold. A soak! Rather drink than sit in the Empress of China’s council ... she’s dead. White trash ... nothing ... h’m.”
He glared up of a sudden and asked harshly:
“Why the hell are you listening?”
“Sorry, sir, I thought....”
“Get out!”
“Yes, sir,” said Walters with alacrity.
For half-an-hour old Jesse Trasmere sat where the valet had left him, the red end of his tooth-pick leaping up and down eccentrically. Then he got up, and, going to an old-fashioned bureau, opened the glass front.