“My name is Brett, Reginald Brett, a friend of Mr. Hume’s—who, I may mention, does not use his full surname at present.”
The Italian was compelled to turn his glittering eyes upon the man who addressed him so glibly.
“I am sorry,” he said slowly, “but Mrs. Capella is too unwell to meet either of you to-day.”
“Ah! We share your regrets. Nevertheless, as a preliminary to our purpose, you will serve our needs equally well. May we not come in?”
Capella was faced with difficult alternatives. He must either be discourteous to two gentlemanly strangers, one of them his wife’s relative, or admit them with some show of politeness. An Italian may be rude, he can never be gauche. Having decided, Capella ushered them into the library with quick transition to dignified ease.
He asked if he might ring for any refreshments. Hume, who glared at his host with uncompromising hostility, and had not taken any part in the conversation, shook his head.
Brett surprised both, for different reasons, by readily falling in with Capella’s suggestion.
“A whisky and soda would be most grateful,” he said.
The Italian moved towards the bell.
“Permit me!” cried Brett.