As he loosened the cords of his heavy cloak with his carefully-gloved hand, Dutch Pugh saw that he was faultlessly dressed, and, as he smiled and showed his white teeth, he said in good English, but with a perceptible foreign accent—
“Mr Parkley, I learn, is out. I address Mr Pugh?”
“The same,” said Dutch, who seemed fascinated by his look. “Will you take a chair?”
A cold chill came over the speaker as the visitor smiled and seated himself, but only to be succeeded by a feeling of suffocation; and for an instant his brain swam, and the dreamy feeling seemed about to return, but it passed off instantly, as, rousing himself, Dutch said—
“You will find this room too hot, perhaps. Shall I open—”
“Hot!” laughed the stranger, taking out a card and letter of introduction. “My dear sir, it is comfortable after your chilly streets. I am from Cuba, where we see the sun.”
As he spoke he handed a card, upon which was printed—“Señor Manuel Lauré.”
“You will open the letter?” he continued, passing the one he held in his hand. “No?”
“Mr Parkley will be here shortly,” said Dutch. “Would you prefer to see him?”
“Yes—no,” said the stranger. “I should like to see him, but I am content to talk to you. You Englishmen are so intelligent, and those who sent me here told me that their fellow-countrymen would be ready to help my designs.”