“To-night, sir, I am many things. The fact is, the regular liftman has got a couple of hours off—being the recent father of twins.”
“Well—Kitcat Club.”
The lift seemed to shoot far upwards, and Mr. Bowring thought the lackey had mistaken the floor, but on gaining the corridor he saw across the portals in front of him the remembered gold sign, “Kitcat Club. Members only.” He pushed the door open and went in.
III.
Instead of the familiar vestibule of his wife’s club, Mr. Bowring discovered a small antechamber, and beyond, through a doorway half-screened by a portière, he had glimpses of a rich, rose-lit drawing-room. In the doorway, with one hand raised to the portière, stood the youngish man who had forced him to blush in the restaurant.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Bowring, stiffly—“is this the Kitcat Club?”
The other man advanced to the outer door, his brilliant eyes fixed on Mr. Bowring’s; his arm crept round the cheek of the door and came back bearing the gold sign; then he shut the door and locked it. “No, this isn’t the Kitcat Club at all,” he replied. “It is my flat. Come and sit down. I was expecting you.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Bowring disdainfully.
“But when I tell you that I know you are going to decamp to-night, Mr. Bowring——”