The cabin certainly was beautifully furnished. Walls of polished wood had their adornment of excellent seascapes, many of them bought at the Paris salon. A bureau with delightful curves and a clock set at the apex above the writing-shelf pleased Alban immensely—he thought that he had seen nothing more graceful even at "Five Gables"; while the chair to match it needed no sham expert to declare its worth. The carpet was of crimson, without pattern but elegantly bordered. There were many shelves for books, but no evidence of commercial papers other than a great staring ledger which was the one eyesore.
"I like your room very much indeed," said Alban upon his swift survey—"not many people would have thought of this. We are all afraid of the damp in England, and if we talked of a floating office, people would think us mad." And then he added—"But you don't come here in winter, Herr Petermann—this place is no use to you then?"
Herr Petermann smiled as though he were well pleased.
"Every place has its uses sometimes," he rejoined a little vaguely, "we never know what is going to happen to us. That is why we should help each other when the occasion arises. You, of course, are visiting Warsaw merely as a tourist, Mr. Kennedy?"
"Indeed, no—I have come here to find a very old friend, the daughter—"
"No names, if you please, Mr. Kennedy. You have come here, I think you said, to find the son of a very old friend. What makes you suppose that I can help you?"
His change of tone had been a marvellous thing to hear—so swift, so masterful that Alban understood in a moment what strength of will and purpose lay hidden by this bland smile and benevolent manner. Herr Petermann was far from being the simple old fellow he pretended to be. You never could have named him that if you had heard him speak as he spoke those few stern words. Alban, upon his part, felt as though some one had slapped him upon the cheek and called him a fool.
"I am very sorry," he blundered—and then recovering himself, he said as honestly—"Is there any need to ask me for reasons? Are not our aims the same, Herr Petermann?"
"To sell wood, Mr. Kennedy?"
Alban was almost angry.