“Well?” he asked, looking up from the smeared typewritten pages of the Havana mail.
“Got it,” said Peter laconically; hanging hat, coat and stick on the brass-hook behind the glass door—which he carefully closed.
“No!” Interrogatively.
“Yes.”
“Well I’m damned.” Simpson glanced admiringly at his partner. He never quite understood Peter; had always been a little afraid of his “recklessness”; had—for that reason—refused to invest any capital in the Nirvana cigarette-factory.
Peter drew the contract from his breast-pocket; and they scrutinized it together. It was written in English, rather Teutonic English, but absolutely clear.
“Who drew this up?” asked Simpson.
“I did. A German lawyer went over it for me; but it’s enforceable in London.”
“Good.”
They plunged into details.