No later than that evening my life took still another step.
A little before nine, just as I was about to go to bed—our hours at the club were early—Ralph Coningsby dropped in for a word with me. I happened to be at the foot of the stairs in the hall when Spender admitted him, and he refused to come farther inside.
“Been dining with my wife’s father and mother over the way,” he said, in explanation of his dinner jacket and black tie, “and just ran across to say something while I was in the neighborhood. You said last night you’d come and see the Grace Memorial with me.”
“If you say so,” I smiled, “I suppose I must have; but it’s the first time to my knowledge that I ever heard of it.”
“Oh, that’s the bit of work I told you about—the thing I’m doing on my own. It’s over here at St. David’s. You see, when Charlie Grace died he left a sum of money to build and endow this institution in memory of his father.”
I smiled again.
“I know I must have heard the name of Charlie Grace, but it seems to have slipped my memory. All the same—”
“I’ll tell you about him to-morrow. I merely want to say now that I’ll look in about ten in the morning, and take you across the street—”
The difficulty I had had to confront in the afternoon was before me again.