About an hour after Mademoiselle Idiale’s departure a note marked “Urgent” was brought in and handed to Laverick. He tore it open. It was dated from the address of a firm of stockbrokers, with two of the partners of which he was on friendly terms. It ran thus:
MY DEAR LAVERICK,—I want a chat with you, if you can spare five minutes at lunch time. Come to Lyons’ a little earlier than usual, if you don’t mind,—say at a quarter to one.
J. HENSHAW.
Laverick read the typewritten note carelessly enough at first. He had even laid it down and glanced at the clock, with the intention of starting out, when a thought struck him. He took it up and read it though again. Then he turned to the telephone.
“Put me on to the office of Henshaw & Allen. I want to speak to Mr. Henshaw particularly.”
Two minutes passed. Laverick, meanwhile, had been washing his hands ready to go out. Then the telephone bell rang. He took up the receiver.
“Hullo! Is that Henshaw?”
“I’m Henshaw,” was the answer. “That’s Laverick, isn’t it? How are you, old fellow?”
“I’m all right,” Laverick replied. “What is it that you want to see me about?”
“Nothing particular that I know of. Who told you that I wanted to?”