“I’ve something else I want you to do. I’m sending a couple of servants to pack up all Bassett’s effects. You might superintend that—see that there’s no pilfering and that everything is properly sealed up. And, by the way, I’ve ordered a grilled chicken at nine to-night, and reserved our last bottle of Chambertin. I should be glad if you’d join me. I daresay Pryce will come in later.”
Mast accepted these proposals with alacrity. He was conscious of some faint glow of self-respect—or of vanity, which so often serves the same purpose.
Late in the afternoon Sir John received a note from Dr Pryce, brought by a messenger. It contained little more than a request that his clothes might be sent him, and the statement that he would write on the morrow if he could find time.
Over the grilled chicken that night Sir John was rather absent-minded. He did not seem in the least inclined to say anything further about Mast’s excellent speech, although he had the opportunity.
“And when do you expect Dr Pryce?” Mast asked.
“Not to-night after all. I’ve heard from him, of course. The poor girl’s really ill. But still we must hope for the best. Pryce has wonderful skill and experience. Shall we—er—join them in the card-room?”
In one corner of the card-room Hanson, the new secretary, was giving Lord Charles Baringstoke a game of chess. There was nobody in the club whose play gave Hanson more trouble. Hanson played like a scholar; his opponent played like a demoniac with occasional flashes of inspiration and was generally, but not invariably, beaten. To-night, for instance, he looked up triumphantly from the board.
“Well, old cockie?”
“Yes,” said Hanson, “that is so. I’d given you credit for something better, and when you unmasked, my position was hopeless. Serves me right. Quite interesting though.”
“Tell you what. My game’s improving?”