“By gad, you are right, Max!” he exclaimed, peeping through the curtains. “There is a man inside.”
“Mr Drishna,” announced Parkinson, a minute later.
The visitor came into the room with leisurely self-possession that might have been real or a desperate assumption. He was a slightly built young man of about twenty-five, with black hair and eyes, a small, carefully trained moustache, and a dark olive skin. His physiognomy was not displeasing, but his expression had a harsh and supercilious tinge. In attire he erred towards the immaculately spruce.
“Mr Carrados?” he said inquiringly.
Carrados, who had risen, bowed slightly without offering his hand.
“This gentleman,” he said, indicating his friend, “is Mr Carlyle, the celebrated private detective.”
The Indian shot a very sharp glance at the object of this description. Then he sat down.
“You wrote me a letter, Mr Carrados,” he remarked, in English that scarcely betrayed any foreign origin, “a rather curious letter, I may say. You asked me about an ancient inscription. I know nothing of antiquities; but I thought, as you had sent, that it would be more courteous if I came and explained this to you.”
“That was the object of my letter,” replied Carrados.
“You wished to see me?” said Drishna, unable to stand the ordeal of the silence that Carrados imposed after his remark.