The youngish man smiled affably.
“Decamp?” The spine of the financier suddenly grew flaccid.
“I used the word.”
“Who the devil are you?” snapped the financier, forcing his spine to rigidity.
“I am the ‘friend’ on the telephone. I specially wanted you at the Devonshire to-night, and I thought that the fear of a robbery at Lowndes Square might make your arrival here more certain. I am he who devised the story of the inebriated cook and favoured you with a telegram signed ‘Marie.’ I am the humorist who pretended in a loud voice to send off telegraphic instructions to sell ‘Solids,’ in order to watch your demeanour under the test. I am the expert who forged your wife’s handwriting in a note from the Kitcat. I am the patron of the cross-eyed menial who gave you the note and who afterwards raised you too high in the lift. I am the artificer of this gold sign, an exact duplicate of the genuine one two floors below, which induced you to visit me. The sign alone cost me nine-and-six; the servant’s livery came to two pounds fifteen. But I never consider expense when, by dint of a generous outlay, I can avoid violence. I hate violence.” He gently waved the sign to and fro.
“Then my wife——” Mr. Bowring stammered in a panic rage.
“Is probably at Lowndes Square, wondering what on earth has happened to you.”
Mr. Bowring took breath, remembered that he was a great man, and steadied himself.
“You must be mad,” he remarked quietly. “Open this door at once.”
“Perhaps,” the stranger judicially admitted. “Perhaps a sort of madness. But do come and sit down. We have no time to lose.”