Hugo Van Diest, from the deeps of a big arm chair, omitted a kind of rumbling affirmative. He was smoking a porcelain pipe enamelled with roses and forget-me-nots. His fat, short fingered hands were spread across the waistcoat of Berlin wool, his chin was sunk and his bearing that of a man who is out of humour.
Gracefully disposed upon the hearthrug stood Oliver Laurence, an excellent advertisement for his tailor.
Ezra P. Hipps, hugging one knee, sat upon the centre table and he was looking at Auriole Craven with much the same expression as might be seen on the face of a slave buyer in an African market. He had passed her shoes, appreciated her stockings, nodded approval at her gown and millinery and was now observing with satisfaction that the gloves which she was peeling off revealed two arms of perfect proportion.
"That guy," he proceeded, "has got to be made to talk. Looks like.
He's made fools of us too long. Looks like," he threw a glance at
Laurence, "your durn psychology isn't worth a hill o' beans."
"We haven't given it a chance yet," said Laurence in defence of his method.
"Seventeen days," grunted Van Diest. "And no progress—nothing. This was not an ordinary man."
"Am I to see him today?" asked Auriole.
Hipps shook his head and the girl brightened perceptibly.
"Seems to please you."
"No, it doesn't. I'll go up if you want me to—only——"