“Very jolly. Thanks; that’d be first-rate.” Both paused a moment. Breezy looked down the street as though expecting someone or something. They ignored that it was luncheon hour.
“You’ll find me in the telephone book,” observed Pince-nez presently.
“Under X—— Hotel, I suppose?” from Breezy. “All right.”
“0995 Northern’s the number, yes.”
“And mine,” said Breezy, “is 0417 Westminster; or the Club”—with an air of imparting valuable private information—“is 0866 Mayfair. Any day you like. Don’t forget!”
“Rather not. Somewhere about one o’clock, eh?”
“Yes—or one-thirty.” And off they went again—each to his solitary luncheon.
A fortnight passed, and once more they came together—this time in an A.B.C. shop.
“Hulloa! There’s Smith,” thought Breezy “By Jove, I’ll ask him to lunch with me.”
“Why, there’s that chap again,” thought Pince-nez. “I’ll invite him, I think.”