Chapter
25
ON Thursday afternoon, Emanuel Legge came out of the elevator at the Highlow Club, and, with a curt nod to Stevens, walked up the heavily carpeted corridor, unlocked the door of his tiny office and went in. For half an hour he sat before his desk, his hands clasped on the blotting-pad before him, motionless, his mind completely occupied by his thoughts. At last he opened his desk, pressed a bell by his side, and he had hardly taken his fingers from the push when the head waiter of the establishment, a tall, unpleasant-looking Italian, came in.
"Fernando, you have made all the arrangements about the dinner to-night?"
"Yes," said the man.
"All the finest wines, eh? The best in the house?"
He peered at the waiter, his teeth showing in a smile.
"The very best," said Fernando
