“If I remember rightly,” Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, “our acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are now assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the more readily rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did not lie in our former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more than twenty years of separation.”
“You don’t like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my heart, and though lost to sight, to memory dear.
By Jove! my feelings have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope you’ve got some in the house now. Josh filled my flask well the last time.”
Mr. Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least clear that further objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guest, had a resolute air of quietude.
There was the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the service of Rigg also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode entertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master.
When there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the wainscoted parlor, and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode said—
“Your habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly enjoy each other’s society. The wisest plan for both of us will therefore be to part as soon as possible. Since you say that you wished to meet me, you probably considered that you had some business to transact with me. But under the circumstances I will invite you to remain here for the night, and I will myself ride over here early tomorrow morning—before breakfast, in fact—when I can receive any communication you have to make to me.”