'You haven't kept me long? Oh, no! Not more than thirteen hours.'
When he had reached the top Mr Burton threw open the door of a room in which the gas was lighted. In an arm-chair a gentleman was smoking a cigar.
'This confounded Flyman thinks that he's the devil knows who. Seems to think he owns the place. I think I'll have a drink.'
The gentleman in the arm-chair ventured on remonstrance.
'I wouldn't if I were you; at least, not till we've got this business over.'
'Wouldn't you? Then I would. There's something the matter with this beastly siphon.'
The matter was that while he directed the nozzle of the siphon in one direction he held his glass in another. The result was that the liquor did not go where he intended. So he drank his whisky neat.
While Mr Burton was having his little discussion with the siphon, the man who had described himself as 'the Flyman' came into the room. He was rather over the average height, slightly built, with fair hair and moustache and very pale blue eyes. The eyes were his most peculiar feature. He was not bad looking, with an agreeable personality; at first sight, a likeable man, until you caught his eyes, then you wondered. They were set oddly in his head, so that they seldom seemed to move. He had a trick of regarding you with a curiously immobile stare, which, even when he smiled--which was but rarely--seemed to convey a latent threat. He was dressed like a respectable artisan, and had such a low-pitched, clear, musical voice that it was with surprise one observed how peculiar were his notions of his mother tongue.
As soon as he was inside the room Mr Burton repeated his former inquiry.
'Now, then, have you got it?'