“Is it really Monsieur Carrados?” inquired Dompierre in polite sarcasm. “Are you sure, Nina, that you have not brought a man from Scotland Yard instead?”
“Basta! he is here; what more do you want? Do not mock the poor sightless gentleman,” answered Madame Dompierre, in doubtful sympathy.
“That is exactly what I was wondering,” ventured Carrados mildly. “I am here—what more do you want? Perhaps you, Mr Stoker——?”
“Excuse me. ‘Stoker’ is a mere colloquial appellation based on a trifling incident of my career in connection with a disabled liner. The title illustrates the childish weakness of the criminal classes for nicknames, together with their pitiable baldness of invention. My real name is Montmorency, Mr Carrados—Eustace Montmorency.”
“Thank you, Mr Montmorency,” said Carrados gravely. “We are on opposite sides of the table here to-night, but I should be proud to have been with you in the stokehold of the Benvenuto.”
“That was pleasure,” muttered the Englishman. “This is business.”
“Oh, quite so,” agreed Carrados. “So far I am not exactly complaining. But I think it is high time to be told—and I address myself to you—why I have been decoyed here and what your purpose is.”
Mr Montmorency turned to his accomplice.
“Dompierre,” he remarked, with great clearness, “why the devil is Mr Carrados kept standing?”
“Ah, oh, heaven!” exclaimed Madame Dompierre with tragic resignation, and flung herself down on a couch.