The champagne bottle whizzed past his head, missing him by a hair’s-breadth and smashing on the opposite wall. Mast would have followed up the attack, but he met a quick fist with the weight of Dr Pryce behind it; the lounge-chair on which he fell collapsed under him, and he lay sprawling on the floor.
“You all seem very excited,” said Dr Pryce, cheerfully. “I would suggest, Sweetling, that you and Mr Bassett go off to his room, and I’ll join you there in a minute.”
“Very well,” said Sir John. “Come on, Mr Bassett. This must be discussed quietly.”
“Get up, old cockie,” said Dr Pryce, extending a hand to Mast. “Made up your mind to bring disgrace on the cloth this morning, haven’t you? You’ve been drinking too much. Go and lie down for a bit—you can’t stand it, you know.”
“You’re a good chap, Pryce,” said Mast. “Perhaps I can stand it and perhaps I can’t. But I’m going on with it for this day anyhow. Thomas, I say, where’s Thomas?”
“Go to the devil your own way then,” said Pryce, and followed Sir John and Mr Bassett.
Lord Charles Baringstoke turned to the on-lookers. “Seem very cross, don’t they?” he said. “Now is anybody going to stand me one little brandy before I go up to bathe my sinful body?”
In the secretary’s room Bassett’s story was told at length. Sir John listened to it with gravity and Dr Soames Pryce with a sardonic smile. In the main Bassett stuck to the facts, but he lied when he said that Mast was drunk when he brought Lechworthy to the club. “I left Lechworthy with King Smith, and he can’t have got back to the Snowflake. So I suppose that he’s with the King now.”
“Most likely,” said Sir John, drumming on the table with his nails. “See, Pryce? Remember what I said? Well, the King’s got into touch at last. Lord knows what Lechworthy was doing here, though.”