He asked if he might ring for any refreshments.  Hume, who glared at his host with uncompromising hostility, and had not taken any part in the conversation, shook his head.

Brett surprised both, for different reasons, by readily falling in with Capella’s suggestion.

“A whisky and soda would be most grateful,” he said.

The Italian moved towards the bell.

“Permit me!” cried Brett.

He rose in awkward haste, and upset his chair with a loud crash on the parquet floor.

“How stupid of me!” he exclaimed, whilst Hume wondered what had happened to flurry the barrister, and Capella smothered a curse.

A distant bell jangled.  By tacit consent, there was no further talk until a servant appeared.  The man was a stranger to Hume.

Oddly enough, Brett took but a very small allowance of the spirit.  In reality, he hated alcohol in any form during the earlier hours.  He was wont to declare that it not only disturbed his digestion but destroyed his taste for tobacco.  Hume did not yet know what a concession to exciting circumstances his new-found friend had made the previous day in ordering spirits before luncheon.

When the servant vanished, Capella settled himself in his chair with the air of a man awaiting explanations.  Yet he was restless and disturbed.  He was afraid of these two.  Why?  Brett determined to try the effect of generalities.

“You probably guess the object of our visit?” he began.

“I?  No.  How should I guess?”

“As the husband of a lady so closely connected with Mr. Hume—­”

But the Italian seemed to be firmly resolved to end the suspense.

“Caramba!” he broke in.  “What is it?”

“It is this.  Mr. Hume has asked me to help him in the investigation of certain—­”

The library door swung open, and a lady entered.  She was tall, graceful, distinguished-looking.  Her cousinship to Hume was unmistakable.  In both there was the air of aristocratic birth.  Their eyes, the contour of their faces, were alike.  But the fresh Anglo-Saxon complexion of the man was replaced in the woman by a peach-like skin, whilst her hair and eyebrows were darker.

She was strikingly beautiful.  A plain black dress set off a figure that would have caused a sculptor to dream of chiselled marble.

“A passionate, voluptuous woman,” thought Brett.  “A woman easily swayed, but never to be compelled, the ready-made heroine of a tragedy.”

Her first expression was one of polite inquiry, but her glance fell upon Hume.  Her face, prone to betray each fleeting emotion, exhibited surprise, almost consternation.

“You, Davie!” she gasped.

Hume went to meet her.

“Yes, Rita,” he said.  “I hope you are glad to see me.”

Mrs. Capella was profoundly agitated, but she held out her hand and summoned the quick smile of an actress.