Abinger refrained from inquiring why the Royal should be patronised for gin-and-bitters, when the Club was just across the road from Bramham's office: he merely continued to grin. The next arrival was Carson. But he saw them before they saw him, so it was for him to play tiger. He saluted them blandly.
"Hullo! you fellows! Waiting to see Nickals, too?"
This was the first information the other two had of the presence of Nickals in the hotel; but Abinger gravely stated that his case was a desire to see that gentleman. Bramham repeated his gin-and-bitters tale. They sat for a quarter of an hour, abusing the weather, the market, and the country, and Carson then said he should go and see if he could find Nickals in his room. The others thought they would accompany him. It appeared that Nickals, hitherto a simple honest fellow, had suddenly grown in importance and magnetic personality.
They did not, like sane men, inquire at the office, which was just inside the hall door, but strolled instead through the vestibules into the palm-garden, and from there to Ulundi Square, having passed the drawing-room windows and looked in, in case Nickals might be playing the piano or resting on the sofa, as Abinger facetiously remarked. Eventually they stopped a strolling waiter and asked if Nickals was in. The waiter went away to see, and the three sat in the Square until he returned with the information that Mr. Nickals had gone to the Berea and would not be back before four o'clock. This was conclusive. They searched each other's faces for any reasonable excuse for further loitering; finally, Abinger said he would now take a gin-and-bitters. Carson thought he would like a smoke. The chairs are easy and comfortable in Ulundi Square, and there are newspapers.
They spent another peaceful twenty minutes. Too peaceful. No one came or went, but an ample-breasted concert soprano, who was touring the country and compiling a fortune with a voice that had long ceased to interest English audiences; a crumpled-looking lady journalist, with her nose in a note-book and her hat on one ear, and a middle-aged American tourist, with a matron as alluringly veiled as the wife of a Caliph, but who unfortunately did not remain veiled.
Ennui engulfed the trio. At last they departed in exasperation—no one having once mentioned his real reason for being there. Carson and Abinger went into the Club, Bramham into his office, promising to join them in a short time for lunch. As he passed through an outer office lined with desks and busy clerks, his secretary followed, to inform him in a discreet voice that a note had come for him by one of the Royal boys. Bramham, forgetting that he was over twenty-five on Isandhlwana day nineteen years before, sprinted into his private room in amazing style. On his desk was a letter addressed in the writing of Rosalind Chard.
"I had a premonition, by Jove!" he exclaimed excitedly, and tore it open. It was brief.
"I am staying at the Royal. Could you call on me some time to-day? I should be delighted if you would lunch with me. It will be charming to see you again."
Bramham stared at the letter for several minutes, then seized his hat and rang the bell.
"Call Mr. Merritt," was his order, and the secretary reappeared.