He nodded, and she departed. So she was in the outfit too!
In fifteen minutes Durant and his guest were sitting in a long, low dining-room that overlooked the garden, while the belated luncheon was served. Larson was full of admiration over the place, as well he might be; his first awe had departed, and he threw off restraint. Under his taciturn exterior he revealed a shrewd personality, as thoroughly American as that of Durant himself. He had spent fifteen years in America, ten years previous to that in England, while his education at home in Denmark had been excellent. To realize that he sat opposite a murderer, criminal, bootlegger, a charming old man who had made an excellent unmoral living off society, was continually astonishing to Durant. And Larson had asked no questions about his host or the reason for an incognito—if he was curious, he bottled it up. So Durant conjured up a history for himself, and it was accepted without a word.
“You know, I liked you at the start!” said Larson, when they lighted cigars and adjourned to the garden for a look around. “You know Makoff well?”
“Not well,” said Durant. “I met him aboard the boat. Why?”
“I don’t cotton to him,” said the other. “He may be a nobleman and all that, and the cousin of Baroness Glincka—that the name?—but I know a crook when I see one. I’d ought to, eh? Yes sir. That bird, for all his society airs, is a bad one.”
“I believe you,” said Durant with a chuckle. Wary Makoff! The Russian had sensed this suspicion in Larson, and did not intend to show himself as a guest. “Makoff wont show up here, I’m glad to say. How do you know I’m not a crook too?”
Larson glanced at him and grinned. “You’ve the makings of one, and a good one—but I know a square-shooter when I see him! Let’s go attend to that money, shall we?”
Durant nodded, and they went upstairs. He brought one of his own bags into Larson’s room—a bag specially made, with Yale lock, though Durant had nothing in it except clothes. Being fully aware, by sharp experience, of the fallacious tourist belief that English-made clothes were better than American, he had loaded up at home with a large outfit.
Larson opened a suitcase and threw out on the bed half a dozen packages wrapped in oiled silk and sealed. He broke one open to reveal crisp new hundred-dollar bills.
“Six of ’em,” he said. “Open the others up if you like. Why the suitcase?”