Like his guest, Doctor Palermo was garbed in evening clothes. Except for their facial differences, one might have passed for the other. Yet no one would ever have mistaken the haggard, careworn features of Horace Chatham for the firm, well-molded countenance of Albert Palermo.
The two men faced each other without speaking.
The room was amazingly silent. None of the uproar of the city’s streets reached that apartment, five hundred feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan. Yet the silence was expressive.
Doctor Palermo seemed to be mentally questioning his visitor, and Horace Chatham seemed incapable of speech.
Palermo finished his quizzical study. He went to a table, opened a door beneath it, and drew out a decanter filled with a light-brown liquid. He poured out a small drink, and offered it to Horace Chatham.
The man in the armchair gulped the contents of the glass. It was some potent liquor that was unfamiliar to him. Doctor Palermo smiled as he witnessed its effect.
The drink was a bracer for Horace Chatham. It seemed to bring sudden light to the man’s face. He looked about him with a wan smile; then he laughed, forgetful of his nervousness.
For the first time, he became fully aware of his surroundings. He saw Doctor Palermo smiling back at him, standing in the center of the small den, with its exquisite furnishings and paneled dark-oak walls.
“Have a cigar,” said Palermo, in a smooth, suave voice.
He proffered a box of expensive perfectos. Chatham took one, and Palermo extended a lighted match.