THE UNDERCURRENT
as if realizing that something was required of him Hammersley leaned forward.
“I say, Rizzio. What the deuce is it all about? I’m sorry you’re gettin’ old an’ all that sort of thing, but I can’t help it. Now can I, old chap?”
Rizzio’s smile slowly faded and his gaze passed Hammersley and rested on the brass fender of the fireplace.
“You don’t care to tell me?” he asked.
“What?”
“About that package of rice-papers.”
“Byfield has them.”
“Not that package,” put in Rizzio with a wave of the hand. And then, leaning forward, in a low tone, “The other.”
Hammersley sat upright a moment, his hands on the chair-arms and then sank back in his chair with a laugh.
“I say. I can take a joke as well as the next, but—er—what’s the answer?”
Rizzio rose, his graceful figure dominant.
“I don’t think that sort of thing will do, Hammersley.”
His demeanor was perfectly correct, his hand-wave easy and a well-bred smile flickered at his lips, but his tone masked a mystery. Hammersley rose, removing his cigarette with great deliberateness from its holder and throwing it into the fire.
“If there isn’t anything else you want to see me about—” He took a step in the direction of the door.
“One moment, please.”
Hammersley paused.
“I think we’d better drop subterfuge. I know
27
