Dave Henderson studied the other's face complacently. The man was not as old as Nicolo Capriano; the man's hair was still black and shone with oil, and in features he was not Nicolo Capriano at all; but somehow it was Nicolo Capriano, only in another incarnation perhaps. He nodded his head. He was not sorry to learn that The Iron Tavern was ultraexclusive!
“That's too bad,” he said quietly. “I've come a long way—from a friend of yours. Perhaps that may make some difference?”
“A friend?” Dago George was discreetly interested.
“Nicolo Capriano,” said Dave Henderson.
Dago George leaned suddenly forward, staring into Dave Henderson's eyes.
“What!” he exclaimed. “What is that you say? Nicolo Capriano!” He caught up the dress-suit case from the floor, and caught Dave Henderson's arm, and pulled him forward into the room, and closed the door behind them. “You come from Nicolo Ca-priano, you say? Ah, yes, my friend, that is different; that is very different. There may still be some rooms here, eh? Ha, ha! Yes, yes!”
“You may possibly already have heard something from him about me,” said Dave Henderson. “Barty Lynch is the name.”
Dago George shook his head.
“Not a word. It is long, very long, since I have heard from Nicolo Capriano. But I do not forget him—no one forgets Nicolo Capriano. And you have come from Nicolo, eh? You have some message then—eh, my friend?”
Dave Henderson extended the old bomb king's letter.