“Sit down,” said Zimmerlein curtly. “They will be here in a few minutes.”
“That was a terrible thing last night, Zimmerlein,” said the Brazilian, nervously glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the drafting-room.
Zimmerlein made no response. He resumed his set, faraway expression, his gaze directed at the upper sash of the broad, high window, beyond which a distant, grey cloud glided slowly across a blue-white sky.
“Most shocking,” went on the Brazilian, after a moment. He had not removed his overcoat. The fur collar was still fastened closely about his neck.
Zimmerlein turned toward his visitor.
“Take off your coat, Riaz. Make yourself comfortable,” he said, affably. “Help yourself to a cigar.”
Riaz,—Sebastian Riaz, diamond merchant and mine-owner of Rio Janeiro,—removed his coat. “The appointment was for eleven o'clock, Mr. Zimmerlein,” he said, looking at his watch. “They are late. It is nearly twelve.”
“Permit me to remind you that you also were late. Everything is in order, my dear sir. The deal may be closed in ten minutes,—or even less time than that,—if there is no further haggling on your part.” He closed one eye slowly. “The contracts, the estimates, the plans are ready. Nothing is lacking except the signatures.”
“Just as they have been ready for nearly two months,” observed Riaz, also closing an eye.
“All ready—except the signatures and the date.”