"Sit down, Soames!" he directed.
Soames, placing his bag upon the floor, seated himself in a cane
armchair. The room was cheaply furnished as an office, with a roll-top
desk, a revolving chair, and a filing cabinet. On a side-table stood
a typewriter, and about the room were several other chairs, whilst the
floor was covered with cheap linoleum. Gianapolis sat in the revolving
chair, staring at the lowered blinds of the window, and brushing up the
points of his black mustache.
With a fine white silk handkerchief Soames gently wiped the perspiration
from his forehead and from the lining of his hat-band. Gianapolis began
abruptly:--
"There has been an--accident" (he continued to brush his mustache, with
increasing rapidity). "Tell me all that took place after you left the
Post Office."
Soames nervously related his painful experiences of the evening, whilst
Gianapolis drilled his mustache to a satanic angle. The story being
concluded:
"Whatever has happened?" groaned Soames; "and what am I to do?"
"What you are to do," replied Gianapolis, "will be arranged, my dear
Soames, by--Mr. King. Where you are to go, is a problem shortly settled:
you are to go nowhere; you are to stay here."...
"Here!"
Soames gazed drearily about the room.
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