There was a crackle of tissue-paper, and he drew out a photograph—the photograph of a laughing girl with a diminutive terrier of doubtful extraction clasped in her arms. Without any change of countenance he studied this also.
He laid it at last upon his table, and turned in his chair. "Have you had anything to drink?"
De Montville looked slightly disconcerted by the question. "But no!" he said. "I have not—that is to say, I would not—"
Mordaunt stretched a hand to the bell. "Holmes should have seen to it.
What do you drink? Afraid I can't offer you absinthe."
"But I never drink it, monsieur."
"No? Whisky and soda, then?"
"What you will, monsieur."
"Very well. Whisky and soda, Holmes, and be quick about it." Mordaunt glanced at the clock, looked again at the photograph at his elbow, finally rose. "I want a talk with you, M. de Montville," he said, "if you feel up to it. Don't get up, please. There is no necessity."
But de Montville apparently thought otherwise, for he drew himself to a sitting position and faced his benefactor.
"I also," he said, "have desired to talk with you since long."