He had
obviously been prowling up and down.
"Mr. Rivington?" he said interrogatively.
Rivington bowed.
"Mr. Dinghra Singh?" he returned.
"Have you seen me before?"
"At a distance--several times."
"Ah!" The Indian drew himself up with a certain arrogance, but his
narrow black moustache did not hide the fact that his lips were
twitching with excitement. His dark eyes shone like the eyes of a beast,
green and ominous. "But we have never spoken. I thought not. Now, Mr.
Rivington, will you permit me to come at once to business?"
He spoke without a trace of foreign accent. He stood in the middle of
the room, facing Rivington, in a commanding attitude.
Rivington took a seat on the edge of the table. He was still faintly
smiling.
"Go ahead, sir," he said. "Won't you sit down?"
But Dinghra preferred to stand.
"I am presuming that you are the Mr. Cecil Mordaunt Rivington whose
engagement to Miss Ernestine Cardwell was announced in this morning's
paper," he said, speaking quickly but very distinctly.
"The same," said Rivington. He added with a shrug of the shoulders, "A
somewhat high-sounding name for such a humble citizen as myself, but it
was not of my own choosing."
Dinghra ignored the remark. He was very plainly in no mood for
trivialities.
"And the engagement really exists?" he questioned.
The Englishman's brows went up.
"Of course it exists.
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