“If you don’t mind giving yourself a drink and getting warm by the fire, I’ll rouse up Uncle Herbert,” said Angela. “Your luggage is in the other car, of course. They’ll be here in a moment.”
She looked squarely at him and smiled.
“I hope I haven’t completely unmanned you… by my driving I mean.”
“You have… but not by your driving.” Nigel was astonished to hear himself reply.
“Was that gallantry? It sounded like Charles.”
Somehow he gathered that to sound like Charles was a mistake.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” said Angela. “There are the drinks.” She waved towards an array of glasses and disappeared into the shadows.
Nigel mixed a whisky-and-soda and wandered to the stairs. Here he saw hanging a long strip of leather, slotted to hold a venomous company of twisted blades and tortuously wrought hafts. Nigel had stretched out his hand towards a wriggling Malay kriss, when a sudden flood of light blazed across the steel and caused him to turn abruptly. A door on his right hand opened. Silhouetted against the brilliance of the room beyond was a motionless figure.
“Excuse me,” said an extremely deep voice, “we have not met, I believe. Allow me to make an introduction of myself. Doctor Foma Tokareff. You are interested in oriental weapons?”
Nigel had given a very noticeable start at this unexpected interruption. He recovered himself and stepped forward to meet the smiling Russian, who advanced with his hand outstretched. The young journalist closed his fist on a bunch of thin fingers that lay inert for a second and then suddenly tightened in a wiry grip. Inexplicably he felt gauche and out of place.