Dinner was nearly over, when Giles leaned above Durant’s chair.
“There’s a gentleman asking for you, sir. In the library.”
Durant rose, excused himself without the fact appearing strange, and passed into the library. He found Makoff awaiting him.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian. “Glad to find everything smooth. No trouble?”
“None, with your perfect arrangements.”
“I’ll have to turn over the job to you and Michael after all,” said Makoff. “I’ve been called to Paris in haste—making the nine o’clock Southampton train tonight.”
“Who’s Michael?”
“Giles,” and Makoff chuckled. “Good man, eh? Dardent’s our regular London agent. Michael has full instructions; I’ll give you yours now. Larson, I believe, has fifteen or twenty thousand dollars in currency—”
“Sixty,” said Durant. Makoff whistled.
“Sixty thousand? Whew! Still better.” He winked delightedly, rubbed his hands. “This house was taken in his name, understand? The cook and so forth engaged in his name. Now—what’s the matter?”