"What luck to find you up!" he exclaimed. "You got my telegram?"
"An hour ago," Duncombe answered. "This is my friend, Mr. Andrew Pelham. What will you have?"
"Whisky and soda, and a biscuit, please," was the prompt reply. "Haven't upset you, I hope, coming down from the clouds in this fashion?"
"Not in the least," Duncombe answered. "You've made us very curious, though."
"Dear me!" Spencer exclaimed, "what a pity! I came here to ask questions, not to answer them. You've set me a regular poser, Duncombe. By Jove! that's good whisky."
"Help yourself," Duncombe answered. "We won't bother you to-night. I'll show you a room as soon as you've had a cigarette. Fair crossing?"
"No idea," Spencer answered. "I slept all the way. Jolly place you've got here, Duncombe. Nice country, too."
"There is just one question," Pelham began.
"Sha'n't answer it—to-night," Spencer interrupted firmly. "I'm dead sleepy, and I couldn't guarantee to tell the truth. And when to-morrow comes—I'll be frank with you—I've very little to say. Pardon me, but where does Mr. Pelham come in in this matter?"
"Pelham," Duncombe said slowly, "was a neighbor of Miss Poynton's, in Devonshire. It was through him that I first went to Paris to search for her."