“No, Archie.” Wolfe leaned back and sighed. “No, thank you.” He closed his eyes. “No, thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” I said politely, and sat down again without bothering to close the door. That was merely one more example of my self-control. Inwardly I was in a turmoil. I knew the signs. I knew that tone of his. It was the first symptom of the approach of a relapse. Unless I could bully him out of it, or unless the murderer came in and confessed within an hour, he would have a relapse as sure as ham loves eggs. What made it so ticklish was the fact that we weren’t at home. If we had been at the office I would have stood an even chance of jolting him loose, but there on alien territory I wasn’t so sure of myself. So I don’t know how long I might have sat there trying to decide the best line to take, beyond the ten minutes or so I did sit, if I hadn’t heard footsteps stopping at the doorway. I turned my head and saw it was the butler.
“Speak,” I said listlessly.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Dunn would like to see Mr. Wolfe in the living room.”
“Bring me a derrick.” I waved him away. “You’ve done your share. I’ll get him there if I can.”
He went. I waited a full minute and then demanded, “Did you hear that?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
No answer. I waited another minute. “Look here. You are not in your own home. You came here of your own volition. It’s not Dunn’s fault that this thing is turning into a plate of sour hash, unless he killed Hawthorne himself. He invited you here and you came. Either go down and see what he wants, or let’s go home and starve.”
He stirred, slowly opened his eyes, and pronounced a word in some foreign tongue which I have never bothered to ask him to translate, because it sounds as if it couldn’t be printed anyway. He got out of his chair, and he moved toward the door. I followed.