up and down the room, his hands behind him and his chin upon his chest.
“Naturally I have not told her the worst, or how beastly unpleasant the man has been.”
He stopped and turned.
“Do you know he threatened to kill me?” he asked.
Kara smiled.
“I can tell you it was no laughing matter,” said the other, angrily, “I nearly took the little whippersnapper by the scruff of the neck and kicked him.”
Kara dropped his hand on the other's arm.
“I am not laughing at you,” he said; “I am laughing at the thought of Vassalaro threatening to kill anybody. He is the biggest coward in the world. What on earth induced him to take this drastic step?”
“He said he is being hard pushed for money,” said the other, moodily, “and it is possibly true. He was beside himself with anger and anxiety, otherwise I might have given the little blackguard the thrashing he deserved.”
Kara who had continued his stroll came down the room and halted in front of the fireplace looking at the young author with a paternal smile.
“You don't understand Vassalaro,” he said; “I repeat he is the greatest coward in the world. You will probably discover he is full of firearms and threats of slaughter, but you have only to click a revolver to see him collapse. Have you a revolver, by the way?”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the other, roughly, “I cannot engage myself in that kind of melodrama.”
“It is not nonsense,” insisted the other, “when you are in Rome, et cetera, and when you have to deal with a low-class Greek you must use methods which will at least impress him. If you thrash him, he will never forgive you and will probably stick a knife into you or your wife. If you meet his melodrama with melodrama and at the psychological moment produce your revolver; you will secure the effect you require. Have you a revolver?”
John went to his desk and, pulling open a drawer, took out a small Browning.
“That is the extent of my armory,” he said, “it has never been fired and was sent to me by an unknown admirer last Christmas.”
“A curious Christmas present,” said the other, examining the weapon.
“I suppose the mistaken donor imagined from my books that I lived in a veritable museum of revolvers, sword sticks and noxious drugs,” said Lexman, recovering some of his good humour; “it was accompanied by a card.”
“Do you know how it works?” asked the other.
“I have never troubled very much about it,” replied Lexman, “I know that it is loaded by slipping back the cover, but as my admirer did not send ammunition, I never even practised with it.”
There was a knock at the door.
“That is the post,” explained John.
The maid had one letter on the salver and the author took it up with a frown.
“From Vassalaro,” he said, when the girl had left the room.
The Greek took the letter in his hand and examined it.
“He writes a vile fist,” was his only comment as he handed it back to John.
He slit open the thin, buff envelope and took out half a dozen sheets of yellow paper, only a single sheet of which was written upon. The letter was brief:
“I must see you to-night without fail,” ran the scrawl; “meet me
at the crossroads between Beston Tracey and the Eastbourne
Road. I shall be there at eleven o'clock, and, if you want to
preserve your life, you had better bring me a substantial
instalment.”
It was signed “Vassalaro.”
John read the letter aloud. “He must be mad to write a letter like that,” he said; “I'll meet the little devil and teach him such a lesson in politeness as he is never likely to forget.”
He handed the letter to the other and Kara read it in silence.
“Better take your revolver,” he said as he handed it back.
John Lexman looked at his watch.
“I have an hour yet, but it will take me the best part of twenty minutes to reach the Eastbourne Road.”
“Will you see him?” asked Kara, in a tone of surprise.
“Certainly,” Lexman replied emphatically: “I cannot have him coming up to the house and making a scene and that is certainly what the little beast will do.”
“Will you pay him?” asked Kara softly.
John made no answer. There was probably 10 pounds in the house and a cheque which was due on the morrow would bring him another 30 pounds. He looked at the letter again. It was written on paper of an unusual texture. The surface was rough almost like blotting paper and in some places the ink absorbed by the porous surface had run. The blank sheets had evidently been inserted by a man in so violent a hurry that he had not noticed the extravagance.
“I shall keep this letter,” said John.
“I think you are well advised. Vassalaro probably does not know that he transgresses a law in writing threatening letters and that should be a very strong weapon in your hand in certain eventualities.”
There was a tiny safe in one corner of the study and this John opened with a key which he took from his pocket. He pulled open one of the steel drawers, took out the papers which were in it and put in their place the letter, pushed the drawer to, and locked it.
All the time Kara was watching him intently as one who found more than an ordinary amount of interest in the novelty of the procedure.
He took his leave soon afterwards.
“I would like to come with you to your interesting meeting,” he said, “but unfortunately I have business elsewhere. Let me enjoin you to take your revolver and at the first sign of any bloodthirsty intention on the part of my admirable compatriot, produce it and click it once or twice, you won't have to do more.”
Grace rose from the piano as Kara entered the little drawing-room and murmured a few conventional expressions of regret that the visitor's stay had been so short. That there was no sincerity in that regret Kara, for one, had no doubt. He was a man singularly free from illusions.
They stayed talking a little while.
“I will see if your chauffeur is asleep,” said John, and went out of the room.
There was a little silence after he had gone.
“I don't think you are very glad to see me,” said Kara. His frankness was a little embarrassing to the girl and she flushed slightly.
“I am always glad to see you, Mr. Kara, or any other of my husband's friends,” she said steadily.
He inclined his head.
“To be a friend of your husband is something,” he said, and then as if remembering something, “I wanted to take a book away with me—I wonder if your husband would mind my getting it?”
“I will find it for you.”
“Don't let me bother you,” he protested, “I know my way.”
Without waiting for her permission he left the girl with the unpleasant feeling that he was taking rather much for granted. He was gone less than a minute and returned with a book under his arm.
“I have not asked Lexman's permission to take it,” he said, “but I am rather interested in the author. Oh, here you are,” he turned to John who came in at that