“I say, Rizzio. What the deuce is it all about? I’m sorry you’re gettin’ old an’ all that sort of thing, but I can’t help it. Now can I, old chap?”
Rizzio’s smile slowly faded and his gaze passed Hammersley and rested on the brass fender of the fireplace.
“You don’t care to tell me?” he asked.
“What?”
“About that package of rice-papers.”
“Byfield has them.”
“Not that package,” put in Rizzio with a wave of the hand. And then, leaning forward, in a low tone, “The other.”
Hammersley sat upright a moment, his hands on the chair-arms and then sank back in his chair with a laugh.
“I say. I can take a joke as well as the next, but—er—what’s the answer?”
Rizzio rose, his graceful figure dominant.