Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved unavailing.
Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing ‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along up there. Is it anything important?”
“It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.”
“Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?”
They drifted and after the one had multiplied considerably the two Daventrys motored back up to Knightsbridge.
“The uninitiated would never dream of a club like ‘Princes’ hiding here, would they, Peter?” queried his brother as they entered. “I remember being very interested the first time I came.”
Bathurst was soon run to earth.
“Haven’t seen you for nearly a year, Daventry! Your brother? Delighted! Fit?”
“Very fit—thanks—and you?”
“Never better!” His words did not belie him. Anthony Bathurst, in whatever company of men he found himself, was usually the fittest of the lot. He excelled at nearly all ball games and took extraordinary pains to keep thoroughly “trained.” And his mental powers were equally outstanding. Peter Daventry speedily realized something of the admiration that he knew his brother felt for the man to whom he had just been introduced. He was aware of that atmosphere of “personality” that distinguishes a select company.