Conrad Schultz was a tall, raw-boned German-American, with a long nose and pale, sorrowful mustache, but with an eye in the cerulean depths of which there lurked the cold fire of reliable strategy.
"Come in," said Violet, "an' have a drop of something."
"Thanks."
He came in cumbersomely, and took an uneasy seat.
"Some chilly for this season," he remarked, with a cool glance in the direction of the ebony Cassie, hovering glumly in the background.
Violet thought she caught the meaning of the man, whom she knew was Hermann Hoffmann's successor.
"It is chilly for this time of year," she said. "What will you have? It better be something warming. There's whiskey here, or, if you don't mind waiting till Cassie goes for it, there's some good brandy in the cellar."
Schultz appeared to hesitate, and Violet, watching him, could not, for a moment, decide whether there was, after all, any foundation for the hope that his appearance had wakened.
"Well, if it ain't no trouble," he at last blurted, "I would like a taste of real brandy."
"Cassie," said Violet, "bring up a fresh bottle of brandy for Mr.—Mr.——"