“I would rather give it to M. Zaharoff. Just tell him, please, that I have a letter which I must put into his hands. It'll only take a moment.”
Perhaps the secretary saw about Lanny Budd those signs which are not easy to counterfeit, and which establish even a youngster as entitled to consideration. “Will you come in, please?” he said, and the lad entered a drawing room full of gilt and plush and silk embroidery and marble and ormolu — all things which fortify the self-esteem of possessors of wealth. Lanny waited, standing. He didn't feel at home and didn't expect to.
In a minute or two a door was opened, and the master of Europe came in. He had changed his ugly broadcloth coat for a smoking jacket of green flowered silk. He came about halfway and then said: “You have a message for me?” The boy was surprised by his voice, which was low and well modulated; his French was perfect.
“M. Zaharoff,” said Lanny, with all the firmness he could summon, “this is a letter of yours which I stole. I have brought it to you with my apologies.”
The old man was so surprised that he did not put out his hand for the letter. “You stole it?”
“My father told me that you caused his portfolio to be stolen, so I thought I would pay you back. But my father does not approve of that, so I am bringing the letter.”
The old spider sensed a trembling in his web. Such a trembling may be caused by something that spiders eat, or again it may be caused by something that eats spiders. The cold blue eyes narrowed. “So your father thinks that I employ thieves?”
“He says that is your practice; but he doesn't want it to be mine.”
“Did he tell you to tell me that?”
“He told me that whatever questions you asked me I was to answer with the facts.”