Dinner that evening was a jovial meal. Muriel having announced with due solemnity that Gerald had won his bet, she proceeded to decide at what theatre Mr Marston should fulfil his obligation.
"And don't you think," said Muriel, "that Roland ought to come with us? If it weren't for him we shouldn't be going at all."
"I suppose he ought, the young rascal, though I can't think why he should have spotted it. Muriel was an untidy little scamp when he went away, and she's an untidy little scamp now he's come back."
"Oh, father!"
"Yes, you are. You can't tell what's on purpose with you and what isn't; you're all over the place."
It was perfectly untrue, of course, but they laughed all the same.
"That's a poor excuse, father," said Gerald. "I knew he'd spot it. It's through spotting things like that that he manages to wangle interviews with all these pots."
"Perhaps it is, perhaps it is; I'm bothered if I know how he does it." And Roland and Muriel exchanged a swift glance of confederacy: a feeling that was increased when the last post arrived and Mr Marston interrupted the general conversation with a piece of news his letter had brought him.
"My dear, here's a funny thing. I never saw it in the papers, though I suppose it must have been in them. But that fellow Brumenhein is dead."
"Brumenhein!"