He shut the door with a bang. In the electric light he looked tired and menacing. At least Sir Seymour thought so. But the light in the little hall was shaded and not very strong.
“You will be much too hot truly!” said Arabian.
“Then I’ll leave my coat,” said Sir Seymour.
And he took it off, laid it on a chair and went into a room on the left, the door of which Arabian held open.
“This is my salon. I take the flat furnished. The river is there.”
He pointed towards the windows now covered by curtains.
“Please sit down by the fire. I will explain. I know you will be on my side.”
He pressed a bell on the right of the mantelpiece.
Almost instantaneously the door was opened and a thin man—who looked about thirty, Sir Seymour thought—showed himself. He had a very dark narrow face and curiously light-grey eyes. Arabian spoke to him in Spanish. He listened, motionless, turned and went softly out.
“You must have a little whisky with me!” said Arabian.