The telegram went round from hand to hand. I read, when it came to my turn: “Come supper my rooms 8.45 to-night. M. Sweeting.”
“I never sent it,” protested our host. “It must be a hoax. Look here, Slate’. The truth is, the Prime Minister wrote he wanted to make my acquaintance, because—because of the ‘Letters,’ you know; and—and he’s due here in a few minutes.”
The creature grinned like a jackal.
“My eyes, what fun!” he said. “I shall love to see you two meet.”
“There’s—there’s fizz in the next room, Slate’,” said the miserable Sweeting.
“You needn’t tell me,” said Slater. “I’d spotted it already.”
And then, before another word could be said, the door was opened, and the guest of the evening announced.
He came in smiling, ingratiatory, the familiar willowy figure in pince-nez. We all rose, and the stricken Sweeting advanced to meet him. The great man, looking, it is true, a little surprised over his reception, held out his hand cordially.
“And is this——” he purred—and paused.
Sweeting did not answer: he was beyond it; but he nodded, and opened his mouth, as if to beg that the “communication” might be posted into it, and the matter settled off-hand.