"Good day, Mr. Trent," said Moniz, motioning the other to a vacant chair. His cunning brain was already seeking to ferret out the reason of Chester's call; in his manner there was not the faintest suggestion that such a thing as grim hostilities had ever existed. "It is like old times to have you here again."
"Umph!" Chester exclaimed, sinking into the chair. He was no diplomat. Like most members of his race, he would have preferred to come out bluntly with his proposal, and get the matter over. But he knew Moniz too well to do that. It was a delicate situation, because when he did lay his cards on the table he must, willy nilly, accept the best terms that the grasping Portuguese chose to give. Therefore he must flutter, moth-like, round the flame for a while, flirting with the subject, or even giving the impression, if possible, that there was no subject to come under discussion at all, though both men knew come it must.
Moniz clapped his hands, and a house boy appeared as if by magic. A few moments later the man brought out a tray, on which were a couple of tumblers, water, and a bottle. Nobody knew better than the trader the infinite wisdom of oiling the conversational wheels at the right moment.
"It's the best brand there is—straight from Scotland," he said, pushing the tray toward his guest.
