Kara who had continued his stroll came down the room and halted in front of the fireplace looking at the young author with a paternal smile.
“You don't understand Vassalaro,” he said; “I repeat he is the greatest coward in the world. You will probably discover he is full of firearms and threats of slaughter, but you have only to click a revolver to see him collapse. Have you a revolver, by the way?”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the other, roughly, “I cannot engage myself in that kind of melodrama.”
“It is not nonsense,” insisted the other, “when you are in Rome, et cetera, and when you have to deal with a low-class Greek you must use methods which will at least impress him. If you thrash him, he will never forgive you and will probably stick a knife into you or your wife. If you meet his melodrama with melodrama and at the psychological moment produce your revolver; you will secure the effect you require. Have you a revolver?”
John went to his desk and, pulling open a drawer, took out a small Browning.
“That is the extent of my armory,” he said, “it has never been fired and was sent to me by an unknown admirer last Christmas.”
“A curious Christmas present,” said the other, examining the weapon.
“I suppose the mistaken donor imagined from my books that I lived in a veritable museum of revolvers, sword sticks and noxious drugs,” said Lexman, recovering some of his good humour; “it was accompanied by a card.”
“Do you know how it works?” asked the other.
“I have never troubled very much about it,” replied Lexman, “I know that it is loaded by slipping back the cover, but as my admirer did not send ammunition, I never even practised with it.”