“Quite,” replied the other.
“Why?”
“I rather like the light of this lamp.”
“It isn't the lamp,” drawled the Greek and made a little grimace; “I hate these candles.”
He waved his hand to the mantle-shelf where the six tall, white, waxen candles stood out from two wall sconces.
“Why on earth do you hate candles?” asked the other in surprise.
Kara made no reply for the moment, but shrugged his shoulders. Presently he spoke.
“If you were ever tied down to a chair and by the side of that chair was a small keg of black powder and stuck in that powder was a small candle that burnt lower and lower every minute—my God!”
John was amazed to see the perspiration stand upon the forehead of his guest.
“That sounds thrilling,” he said.
The Greek wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and his hand shook a little.
“It was something more than thrilling,” he said.
“And when did this occur?” asked the author curiously.
“In Albania,” replied the other; “it was many years ago, but the devils are always sending me reminders of the fact.”
He did not attempt to explain who the devils were or under what circumstances he was brought to this unhappy pass, but changed the subject definitely.
Sauntering round the cosy room he followed the bookshelf which filled one wall and stopped now and again to examine some title. Presently he drew forth a stout volume.
“'Wild Brazil',” he read, “by George Gathercole-do you know Gathercole?”
John was filling his pipe from a big blue jar on his desk and nodded.
“Met him once—a taciturn devil. Very short of speech and, like all men who have seen and done things, less inclined to talk about himself than any man I know.”
Kara looked at the book with a thoughtful pucker of brow and turned the leaves idly.
“I've never seen him,” he said as he replaced the book, “yet, in a sense, his new journey is on my behalf.”
The other man looked up.
“On your behalf?”
“Yes—you know he has gone to Patagonia for me. He believes there is gold there—you will learn as much from his book on the mountain systems of South America. I was interested in his theories and corresponded with him. As a result of that correspondence he undertook to make a geological survey for me. I sent him money for his expenses, and he went off.”
“You never saw him?” asked John Lexman, surprised.
Kara shook his head.
“That was not—?” began his host.
“Not like me, you were going to say. Frankly, it was not, but then I realized that he was an unusual kind of man. I invited him to dine with me before he left London, and in reply received a wire from Southampton intimating that he was already on his way.”
Lexman nodded.
“It must be an awfully interesting kind of life,” he said. “I suppose he will be away for quite a long time?”
“Three years,” said Kara, continuing his examination of the bookshelf.
“I envy those fellows who run round the world writing books,” said John, puffing reflectively at his pipe. “They have all the best of it.”
Kara turned. He stood immediately behind the author and the other could not see his face. There was, however, in his voice an unusual earnestness and an unusual quiet vehemence.
“What have you to complain about!” he asked, with that little drawl of his. “You have your own creative work—the most fascinating branch of labour that comes to a man. He, poor beggar, is bound to actualities. You have the full range of all the worlds which your imagination gives to you. You can create men and destroy them, call into existence fascinating problems, mystify and baffle ten or twenty thousand people, and then, at a word, elucidate your mystery.”
John laughed.
“There is something in that,” he said.
“As for the rest of your life,” Kara went on in a lower voice, “I think you have that which makes life worth living—an incomparable wife.”
Lexman swung round in his chair, and met the other's gaze, and there was something in the set of the other's handsome face which took his breath away.
“I do not see—” he began.
Kara smiled.
“That was an impertinence, wasn't it!” he said, banteringly. “But then you mustn't forget, my dear man, that I was very anxious to marry your wife. I don't suppose it is secret. And when I lost her, I had ideas about you which are not pleasant to recall.”
He had recovered his self-possession and had continued his aimless stroll about the room.
“You must remember I am a Greek, and the modern Greek is no philosopher. You must remember, too, that I am a petted child of fortune, and have had everything I wanted since I was a baby.”
“You are a fortunate devil,” said the other, turning back to his desk, and taking up his pen.
For a moment Kara did not speak, then he made as though he would say something, checked himself, and laughed.
“I wonder if I am,” he said.
And now he spoke with a sudden energy.
“What is this trouble you are having with Vassalaro?”
John rose from his chair and walked over to the fire, stood gazing down into its depths, his legs wide apart, his hands clasped behind him, and Kara took his attitude to supply an answer to the question.
“I warned you against Vassalaro,” he said, stooping by the other's side to light his cigar with a spill of paper. “My dear Lexman, my fellow countrymen are unpleasant people to deal with in certain moods.”
“He was so obliging at first,” said Lexman, half to himself.
“And now he is so disobliging,” drawled Kara. “That is a way which moneylenders have, my dear man; you were very foolish to go to him at all. I could have lent you the money.”
“There were reasons why I should not borrow money from you,”, said John, quietly, “and I think you yourself have supplied the principal reason when you told me just now, what I already knew, that you wanted to marry Grace.”
“How much is the amount?” asked Kara, examining his well-manicured finger-nails.
“Two thousand five hundred pounds,” replied John, with a short laugh, “and I haven't two thousand five hundred shillings at this moment.”
“Will he wait?”
John Lexman shrugged his shoulders.
“Look here, Kara,” he said, suddenly, “don't think I want to reproach you, but it was through you that I met Vassalaro so that you know the kind of man he is.”
Kara nodded.
“Well, I can tell you he has been very unpleasant indeed,” said John, with a frown, “I had an interview with him yesterday in London and it is clear that he is going to make a lot of trouble. I depended upon the success of my play in town giving me enough to pay him off, and I very foolishly made a lot of promises of repayment which I have been unable to keep.”
“I see,”