“Conspiracy? . . . Good Lord! What kind?”
“A conspiracy of circumst’nces, don’t y’ know.”
“I’m glad, at any rate, it hasn’t to do with international politics,” returned Markham good-naturedly.
He glanced at the clock.
“You won’t mind if I get to work? I’ve a dozen things to attend to, and a couple of committees to see. . . . Why don’t you go across the hall and have a talk with Ben Hanlon, and then come back at twelve-thirty? We’ll have lunch together at the Bankers’ Club. Ben’s our greatest expert on foreign extradition, and has spent most of his life chasing about the world after fugitives from justice. He’ll spin you some good yarns.”
“How perfectly fascinatin’!” exclaimed Vance, with a yawn.
But instead of taking the suggestion, he walked to the window and lit a cigarette. He stood for a while puffing at it, rolling it between his fingers, and inspecting it critically.
“Y’ know, Markham,” he observed, “everything’s going to pot these days. It’s this silly democracy. Even the nobility is degen’rating. These Régie cigarettes, now: they’ve fallen off frightfully. There was a time when no self-respecting potentate would have smoked such inferior tobacco.”
Markham smiled.
“What’s the favor you want to ask?”