CHAPTER I
Colonel Munro drew the ends of his white tie through the loop in the middle with infinite care. In a very wide circle of acquaintances he was universally known as "Charlie" Munro; and you had only to look at him to see how appropriate was this gallant diminutive. His head was bald at the top, but cleanly and beautifully bald, like a head of the finest marble; on either side and behind, his hair was both white and curly; his eye was bright, his features remarkably handsome, his mustache a slender ornament of silver, and his figure tall and slender. At sixty-three he was probably handsomer than he had ever been before in his life; and that was saying a great deal. He lived in very pleasant bachelor chambers in St. James' under the charge of a competent valet.
"Let me see that card again," he said, as he gave his tie those little finishing touches that converted it from an elegant accessory into a work of art.
The valet went to his sitting-room and returned with a calling card on a tray. Colonel Munro studied it a trifle lugubriously.
"James Heriot Walkingshaw," he read, with this addendum in pencil, "Shall call for you 7:30. Count on your company at dinner."
The Colonel buttoned his white waistcoat.
"Didn't you tell Mr. Walkingshaw that I would probably be engaged?" he asked.
"Well, sir," said the valet smoothly, "the gentleman seemed such an old friend of yours, I thought perhaps you wouldn't like to miss him."
"One's oldest friends are sometimes d——d nuisances, Forman."
The Colonel saw the pleasant evening he had contemplated spending in the society of two or three of the gayest old bloods in London darkening into a tête-à-tête with Mr. Walkingshaw at his portentously respectable club, and regretted he had allowed Forman to lay out a clean white waistcoat; for he was, by force of circumstances, economical as well as gallant.
"I tell you what," said he, "I don't mean to wait a minute after 7:30. If he turns up late, you can make my apologies, and say I'll be happy to lunch with him to-morrow."
He put on his coat, added an overcoat and white scarf, cocked his opera hat on his shapely old head, and sat confronting his sitting-room clock. At 7:29 he rose briskly, and then with a sigh sank back into his chair. He heard a footstep on the stair.
"Mr. Walkingshaw," announced the valet.
The Colonel advanced with that courteous smile for which he was renowned.
"My dear Charlie!" cried his visitor.
"Well, Heriot," smiled the Colonel, looking a little surprised at the remarkable joviality of this greeting.
He surveyed his old friend up and down, and seemed still more surprised.
"What a buck you are!" he exclaimed.
In truth, Mr. Walkingshaw, arrayed in a new opera hat, a new and shining pair of dress boots, and a fashionable new overcoat, cut a very different figure from the sedate W.S. of the Colonel's previous acquaintance.
Heriot looked a trifle self-conscious.
"I hope I haven't overdone the thing," said he.
"Not a bit," smiled the Colonel, as a bright inspiration struck him. "The only criticism I'd make is that you are really thrown away on the members of your very sedate club, Heriot."
"Oh, but I didn't mean to dine you at my club."
Colonel Munro opened his eyes and smiled again.
"Where do you propose?"
"Well, I thought perhaps you might advise me."
"Let me see," mused Charlie, with a pleasant air.
"What about the Carlton?"
"First-rate, if you care to run to that."
"I've booked a table there on spec," said Heriot.
The Colonel beamed.
"I say, you're coming out, Heriot. Blowing the expense this time, what?"
"I don't care what I spend!" replied his old friend, in a burst of confidence.
"Then let's start," said the Colonel. "Like to take a cab?"
"I've got one waiting."
"After you," said Charlie, holding the door open.
He was struck by the agility with which his old friend descended the stairs, and smiled afresh at the increasing possibilities of the situation.
"I say, this is very pleasant," beamed Mr. Walkingshaw as they jingled off in a hansom.
Rather bashfully he took from his overcoat pocket a pair of dazzling white kid gloves.
"These are the proper things in the evening, aren't they?" he inquired. "I notice you've got on a pair."
His guest chuckled.
"They'll do to dance in afterwards if we go on to Covent Garden," he laughed, and then added waggishly, "How would you like to go to a fancy dress ball, Heriot?"
"Is there one on to-night?" asked Heriot.
"Yes."
"Are you going?"
"Oh, I've given up that sort of thing years ago; but of course, if you're keen to go, I might stretch a point."
Mr. Walkingshaw looked at him doubtfully out of the corner of his eye and answered nothing.
A little later the two old friends had grown more merrily confidential than they had been since the days of their youth. Charlie Munro was a little puzzled by the subtle alteration in his host, but he was not in the least disposed to criticize it. He felt more and more inclined to tempt him into a further display of frivolity.
"Well, now, what about the Covent Garden ball?" he suggested.
Heriot's eyes grew bright, but his mouth pursed cautiously.
"Aren't they rather—er—fast?" he inquired.
"As fast as you choose to make 'em."
"But aren't the ladies rather—er—rather—well—"
"Not a bit," said the Colonel. "There's a mixture, that's all."
"But I say, Charlie, what about being seen by any one we know?"
"We'll get a disguise for you," smiled Charlie.
"Really, can you?"
"Oh, I'll see to that."
He began to picture a very amusing evening with his old friend Heriot.
Mr. Walkingshaw drank off his glass of champagne.
"Well, if you're game—" said he.
"I'm game for anything, my dear fellow, so long as I've you by my side," laughed Charlie. "When you're tired, I'll promise to take you away. Shall we call it arranged?"
"I'll risk it," said Heriot stoutly.