Dago George motioned to a chair, as he ripped the envelope open.
“You will excuse, while I read it—yes?” he murmured, already engrossed in its contents.
Dave Henderson, from the proffered chair, looked around the room. It was blatantly a combination of sleeping room and office. In one corner was a bed; against the wall facing the door there was a safe; and an old roll-top desk flanked the safe on the other side of the only window that the room possessed. His eyes, from their cursory survey of his surroundings, reverted to Dago George. The man had folded up the letter, and was stretching out his hands effusively.
“Ah, it is good!” Dago George ejaculated. “Yes, yes! Anything—anything that I can do for you is already as good as done. I say that from my heart. You are Barty Lynch—yes? And you come from the old master? Well, that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! And now—eh— you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long! You may be sure there is a room! And now—eh—you have not perhaps dined yet? And what else is there? It is long, very long, since I have heard from the old master the old master? Well, that is enough. A room! You may be sure there is a room! ”
Dave Henderson laughed.
“There is nothing else—and not even that,” he said. “There was a dining-car on the train to-night. There's not a thing, except to show me my room and let me turn in.”
“But, yes!” exclaimed Dago George. “Yes, that, of course! But wait! The old master! It is long since I have heard from him. He says great things of you; and so you, too, are a friend of Nicolo Capriano. Well, then, it is an occasion, this meeting! We will celebrate it! A little bottle of wine, eh? A little bottle of wine!”
Dave Henderson shook his head.
“No,” he said, and smiled. “As a matter of fact, I'm rather all in; and, if you don't mind, I'll hit the hay to-night pronto.”
Dago George raised his hands protestingly.