The remainder of the day he passed in procuring the name of a trustworthy Viennese attorney, drafting a letter to him in English, and having it translated into German. The attorney’s name was Ulrich. Arthur inclosed the amount of Peixada’s check in the form of an order upon an Americo-Austrian banking house. At last, weary, and with his zeal in Peixada’s cause somewhat abated, he went home.
In the course of the evening he dropped into a concert garden on Fifty-eighth Street. He had not been seated there a great while before somebody greeted him with a familiar tap upon the shoulder and an easy “How are you?” Looking up, he saw Mr. Rimo.
“Ah,” said Arthur, offering his hand, “how do you do? Sit down.”
Mr. Rimo had an odoriferous jonquil in his buttonhole, and carried a silver-headed Malacca cane. He drew up to the table, lit a cigar with a wax match, and called for Vichy water.
“Well, Mr. Ripley,” he questioned solicitously, “how are you getting on?”
“Oh, very well, thanks. I saw your uncle this morning.”
“That so? Any news?”
“You mean about the case? Nothing decisive as yet. It’s hardly time to expect anything.”
“Oh, no; of course not. I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got a nice job before you.”
“Yes, and an odd one.”