“Tsarderynski,” Simon murmured, “don’t know — never heard of him; looks like a letter from one Bolshie agent to another, on the face of it”
“May I suggest that you endeavour to translate the name?” The grey eyes of almost piercing brilliance, which gave character to De Richleau’s face, lit up.
— “‘Tsar,’ that’s Caesar — King,” Simon Aron began,
“‘de’ of, or from — ‘ ryn’ — ah! now wait a minute — this is interesting, very interesting —” He sat forward suddenly and began nodding his narrow head up and down. “Of course — this is from our old friend Rex Van Ryn!”
His host smiled encouragement.
Simon read the letter through again. “And Rex is in a muddle — a really nasty muddle,” he added jerkily.
“Exactly the conclusion I had arrived at,” De Richleau agreed. “Now what do you make of the rest of the letter?”
For some little time Simon did not reply. In his left hand he slowly revolved the bowl-shaped glass that held some of the Duke’s wonderful old brandy, in his right he held the long evenly burning cigar. For the moment his thoughts had left the beautiful room with its lovely old panelling, its four famous pictures by great masters, and the heavy carpet which seemed to deaden every sound.
He was thinking of Rex Van Ryn — that great hulking American with the ugly face and the enormous sense of fun. He could see Rex now, in the little sitting-room of the house in Trevor Square, which he always took when he came to London. He could hear him dilating on the question of drinks — “Never give a guy a large cocktail, but plenty of ’em — make ’em dry and drink ’em quick — come on, boys — it takes a fourth to make an appetite — here’s to crime!” — and now this strange letter out of Russia. What sort of wild escapade could have taken Rex to such a place? What kind of trouble was he up against? For Simon had not the least doubt that he was in trouble, and Simon was worried — he was very fond of Rex.
De Richleau meanwhile sat silent at the head of the table, a striking and unusual figure. He was a slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, with slender, fragile hands and greying hair; but there was no trace of weakness in his fine distinguished face. His aquiline nose, broad forehead, and grey devil’s eyebrows might well have replaced those of the cavalier in the Van Dyke that gazed down from the opposite wall. Instead of the conventional black, he wore a claret-coloured Vicuna smoking-suit, with silk lapels and braided fastenings; this touch of colour increased his likeness to the portrait. He watched Simon with a slight smile on his firm mouth. He knew the cautious, subtle brain that lay behind the sloping forehead of his guest too well to hurry his deliberations.