“Scarcely, Mr. Gildersleeve, but”—Hammond was regaining his composure—“I’ve become quite used to running into the unexpected since I parted with you on the night of September the twenty-third.”
Gildersleeve smiled. “Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. “However, we’ve decided to acquaint you with some of the missing details that have been baffling you, Mr. Hammond, though I must confess that there are a few things that we would like to know more about ourselves. Later on—”
“Yes, at the club, after dinner,” briskly cut in Martin Winch. “You and Mr. Hammond can get together in a side room and thresh the whole thing out. We’d better hurry over if we don’t wish to be locked out of the café.”
They departed in Winch’s car. At the City Club, Norman T. Gildersleeve’s appearance created no sudden sensation among the scattered few that were present. Apparently, the New York capitalist was not readily recognised, though his picture had appeared many times in the papers since his disappearance. Hon. J. J. Slack, M.P., who was a late arrival, alone picked him out. Slack came striding over to the table where Gildersleeve, Winch and Hammond sat awaiting their order.
“As I live,” he cried, “if it isn’t Norman Gildersleeve in the flesh!”
“Hush,” admonished Gildersleeve in an undertone as the other gripped his hand. “I am anxious for this matter to slip over with as little notoriety as possible.”
“But you’ve already got all the notoriety that’s coming to you,” laughed Slack. “The papers have been full of nothing else since you dropped out of sight. Where on earth have you been?”
Gildersleeve shrugged. “Oh, just on a little private hunting trip above Moose Horn,” he replied. “I needed a rest and thought I’d take it in on my way here.”
Slack’s brows went up ever so slightly. “Bag any big fellows?”
He asked it innocently enough, but Hammond thought he caught the faintest of sarcastic inflexions.