"He's rich," said Mr. Immelbern.
"I wish I could remember where I met him," said the Colonel, frowning over his own train of thought. "I hate to forget a face."
"You doddering old fool!" snarled Mr. Immelbern, smiling at him affectionately. "What do I care about your memory? The point is that he's rich, and he seemed to recognise you. Well, that saves a lot of trouble, doesn't it?"
The Colonel turned towards him and blinked.
"What do you mean?"
"Will you never wake up?" moaned Mr. Immelbern, extending his cigarette-case with every appearance of affability. "Here you've been sitting whining and moping for half an hour because we don't get a chance to make a click, and when a chance does come along you can't see it. What do I care where you met the man? What do I care if you never met him? He nodded to you, and he's sitting two yards away — and you ask me what I mean!"
The Colonel frowned at him for a moment. He was, as we have explained, a born conservative. He never allowed himself to be carried away. He deliberated. He calculated. He explored. He would, but for the ever-present stimulus of Mr. Immelbern, have done as little as any other conservative.
But gradually the frown faded, and a dignified smile took its place.
"There may be something in what you say, Sid," he conceded.
"Go on," ordered Mr. Immelbern crudely. "Hop it. And try to wake your ideas up a bit. If somebody threw a purse into your lap, you'd be asking me what it was."