The Forest [antikvár]

i -'wsmm AGT I The sanctum of Adrián Bastaple, in the City of London, furnished in the style of the nineties, solid and comfortable- living-room rather than office. On a small table centre is a box of cigars with a little spirit flame (as in tobac- 5 conists' shops) alight beside it. A door on the Left leads to an inner sanctuaiy. A door on the Right to a waitingroom; a door Back to the room of Farrell, Bastaple"s confidential man. There is a telephone on the Right of the room. As the curtain rises Farrell enters from his room, 10 usheríng in Tregay. Farrell is perhaps fortyfive; a rather small man with eyes that show a quick brain behind a mild and nervy manner. His face has the habit of little wandering smiles and quick upward looks. Tregay is a bronzed, upstanding man of ib forty, with a clipped fair beard, fine silky hair, and a face at once sanguine and sardonic. Tregay. Before my time, Mr. Farrell. Perhaps you can teli me what the deuce I've come for? Farrell. Your advantage, Mr. Tregay, I trust; sit 20 down, sir. It is noticeable thatchairshave been arrangedmore őrless in radiation from a deep armchair with the little table beside it. Tregay. Thought it might have been your chief's, Mr. Farrell; [reversing a chair and sitting astride of it] 25 unless your City of London has changed its spots since I saw it last. Farrell. The City! Oh! no, sir. It doesn't change. Tregay. What's the latest financial circus? Haven't seen you since that Matabeleland racket, three years 30 ago-in '95. How's Adrián Bastaple? Successful as ever?