"What is it?"
The Pole spread out his hands in a gesture of self-depreciation.
"It is weak of me, I admit," he said, "but I am anxious—foolishly anxious—to return to the society of well-clothed men and pretty women. I pine for social life. It is a weakness of mine," he added apologetically. "I want to meet stockbrokers, financiers, politicians and other chevaliers d'industrie on equal terms, to wear the grande habit, to listen to soft music, to drink good wine."
"Well?" asked the other suspiciously. "What am I to do?"
"Introduce me to society," said Poltavo sweetly—"most particularly do I desire to meet that merchant prince of whose operations I read in the newspapers, Mr. how-do-you-call-him?—Farrington."
The veiled man sat in silence for a good minute, and then he rose, opened the cupboard and put in his hand. There was a click and the cupboard with its interior swung back, revealing another room which was in point of fact an adjoining suite of offices, also rented by Mr. Brown. He stood silently in the opening, his chin on his breast, his hands behind him, then:
"You are very clever, Poltavo," he said, and passed through and the cupboard swung back in its place.