Part 13 (1/2)
”NIKOLA.”
”You have not of course received your letter yet,” I said, addressing the Don. ”What do you say to the invitation?”
”I shall accept it only too willingly,” he answered without delay.
”Provided, of course, you will go too.”
”Have you any objection to raise, Duke?” I asked, addressing Glenbarth.
I could see that he was not very anxious to go, but under the circ.u.mstances he could not very well refuse.
”I shall be very happy,” he answered.
And for once in his life he deliberately said what he knew to be untrue.
CHAPTER VII
”You surely are not going to dine with Doctor Nikola in that strange house?” said my wife, when we were alone together that night. ”After what the Duke has told us, I wonder that you can be so foolish.”
”My dear girl,” I answered, ”I don't see the force of your argument. I shan't be the first who has eaten a meal in the house in question, and I don't suppose I shall be the last. What do you think will happen to me?
Do you think that we have returned to the times of the Borgias, and that Nikola will poison us? No, I am looking forward to a very enjoyable and instructive evening.”
”While we are sitting at home, wondering if the table is disappearing bodily into the vaults and taking you with it, or whether Nikola is charging the side-dishes with some of his abominable chemistry, by which you will be put to sleep for three months, or otherwise experimenting upon you in the interests of what he calls Science. I don't think it is at all kind of you to go.”
”Dear girl,” I answered, ”are you not a little unreasonable? Knowing that de Martinos has but lately arrived in Venice, also that he is a friend of ours--for did he not meet him when in our company?--it is only natural that Nikola should desire to show him some courtesy. In spite of its decay, the Palace Revecce is an exceedingly beautiful building, and when he heard that Martinos would like to visit it, he invited him to dinner. What could be more natural? This is the nineteenth century!”
”I am sure I don't mind what century it is,” she replied. ”Still I adhere to what I said just now. I am sorry you are going.”
”In that case I am sorry also,” I answered, ”but as the matter stands I fail to see how I can get out of it. I could not let the Duke and Martinos go alone, so what can I do?”
”I suppose you will have to go,” she replied ruefully. ”I have a presentiment, however, that trouble will result from it.”
With that the subject was dropped, and it was not until the following morning, when I was smoking with Glenbarth after breakfast, that it cropped up again.
”Look here, d.i.c.k,” said my companion then. ”What about this dinner at Nikola's house to-night? You seemed to be very keen on going last night; are you of the same mind this morning?”
”Why not?” I answered. ”My wife does not like the notion, but I am looking forward to seeing Nikola play the host. The last time I dined with him, you must remember, was in Port Said, and then the banquet could scarcely be described as a pleasant one. What is more, I am anxious to see what effect Nikola and his house will produce upon our friend the Don.”
”I wish he'd get rid of him altogether,” my companion replied. ”I dislike the fellow more and more every time I see him.”
”Why should you? He does you no harm!”
”It's not that,” said Glenbarth. ”My dislike to him is instinctive; just as one shudders when one looks into the face of a snake, or as one is repelled by a toad or a rat. In spite of his present apparent respectability, I should not be at all surprised to hear that at some period of his career he had committed murders innumerable.”
”Nonsense, nonsense,” I replied, ”you must not imagine such things as that. You were jealous when you first saw him, because you thought he was going to come between you and Miss Trevor. You have never been able to overcome the feeling, and this continued dislike is the result. You must fight against it. Doubtless, when you have seen more of him, you will like him better.”
”I shall never like him better than I do now,” he answered, with conviction. ”As they say in the plays, 'my gorge rises at him!' If you saw him in the light I do, you would not let Lady Hatteras----”
”My dear fellow,” I began, rising from my chair and interrupting him, ”this is theatrical and very ridiculous, and I a.s.sume the right of an old friend to tell you so. If you prefer not to go to-night, I'll make some excuse for you, but don't, for goodness' sake, go and make things unpleasant for us all while you're there.”