“Think not,” that young man remarked laconically.
“I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?”
Now indeed Sir John was moved. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. The Times slipped from his fingers. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre.
“It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. What of it?”
There was a shout of laughter. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. An uncomfortable silence followed. Sir John once more looked around him.
“I repeat, gentlemen,” he said, in an ominously low tone, “what of it?”
Drummond shrugged his shoulders.
“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked.
“I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. “Kindly explain it to me.”