“How did it happen?” I asked.
Kavalov raised a plump hand.
“Time enough it is to go into that when we have eaten,” he said. “Let us have our dinner first.”
We went into a small green and brown dining-room where a small square table was set. I sat facing Ringgo across a silver basket of orchids that stood between tall silver candlesticks in the center of the table. Mrs. Ringgo sat to my right, Kavalov to my left. When Kavalov sat down I saw the shape of an automatic pistol in his hip pocket.
Two men servants waited on us. There was a lot of food and all of it was well turned out. We ate caviar, some sort of consommé, sand dabs, potatoes and cucumber jelly, roast lamb, corn and string beans, asparagus, wild duck and hominy cakes, artichoke-and-tomato salad, and orange ice. We drank white wine, claret, Burgundy, coffee and crème de menthe.
Kavalov ate and drank enormously. None of us skimped.
Kavalov was the first to disregard his own order that nothing be said about his troubles until after we had eaten. When he had finished his soup he put down his spoon and said:
“I am not a child. I will not be frightened.”
He blinked pale, worried eyes defiantly at me, his lips pouting between mustache and imperial.
Ringgo grinned pleasantly at him. Mrs. Ringgo’s face was as serene and inattentive as if nothing had been said.
“What is there to be frightened of?” I asked.