Sir Brook shook his head.
“I never have my head clear out of office hours, that 's the fact,” said Balfour, impatiently. “If you had called on me between twelve and three, you 'd have found me like a directory.”
“Put no strain upon your recollection, sir. When I see the Viceroy, it is probable he will repeat the message.”
“You know him, then?”
“I have known him eight-and-forty years.”
“Oh, I have it,—I remember it all now. You used to be with Colonel Hanger and Hugh Seymour and O'Kelly and all the Carlton House lot.”
Fossbrooke bowed a cold assent.
“His Excellency told us the other evening that there was not a man in England who had so many stories of the Prince. Didn't Moore go to you about his Life of Sheridan?—yes, of course,—and you promised him some very valuable documents; and sent him five-and-twenty protested bills of poor Brinsley's, labelled 'Indubitable Records.'”
“This does not lead us to the message, sir,” said Foss-brooke, stiffly.
“Yes, but it does though,—I'm coming to it. I have a system of artificial memory, and I have just arrived at you now through Carlton House, milk-punch, and that story about Lord Grey and yourself riding postilions to Ascot, and you on the wheelers tipping up Grey with your whip till he grew frantic. Was n't that a fact?”