Faradeane shook his head as he held the match to his pipe.
“No, of course not, because you were sitting here; but I could have declared that I saw the figure of a man cross in front of the window——”
Faradeane dropped the match, and strode to the door, then stopped short.
“My man, my gardener, groom, valet, factotum,” he said. “He was looking round for the night, I dare say.” And he sank down into a chair opposite Bertie’s. “And now what was this truth you were going to tell me, Cherub?”
Bertie colored, and shifted in his seat nervously.
“Well, it wasn’t altogether an unselfish deed, this dropping in upon you at this time of night. By the way, it is awfully late!”
Faradeane waved his pipe.
“It is never too date to receive a friend, Cherub. Day and night are all one to a man who takes no interest in either. You have come to talk to me—to ask me something. Isn’t it so?”
Bertie nodded.
“You always seem to know,” he said, with quiet admiration. “I did come to talk to you, to ask you to do me a great favor.”