Jacob took out his card for the Rooms and the Sporting Club, lunched leisurely with an acquaintance whom he had met on the train coming down, made a few purchases, gambled mildly, with some success, and had just changed and descended for his cocktail before dinner at the Paris when Felixstowe strolled in. He smote Jacob on the back and ordered delectable drinks.
“Your money has the right touch, old bean,” he declared. “It’s the sort that worms its way to glory. I can assure you my little bit went through the croupier’s hands like water. Yours—God bless you, old dear! We’ll drink fizz to-night. To think that if I hadn’t met you I might have been trying the vin ordinaire on my way back!”
“Do I gather that you won?” Jacob asked.
“Thirteen hundred of the best, my pocket Crœsus,” was the jubilant reply. “To-morrow you shall have your pony back—not to-night. Your money brings me luck, Jacob. It’s the stuff I’ve been looking for.”
They made their way into the dining-room, where Felixstowe was greeted by many acquaintances. A bewildering confection in black and white claimed his attention. He rejoined Jacob a moment later with a proposition.
“Couple of little fairies there who’d like to hitch on, Jacob,” he suggested. “Betty Tomlinson’s one, little girl I used to know at the Gaiety. Got a flat in Paris now. The other little thing is an American in the same line of business.”
Jacob shook his head.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d rather not.”
“The hand that pays the reckoning rules the roost,” Felixstowe paraphrased cheerfully. “Wait till I hand ’em the mit. Tell Louis to put a magnum on the ice.”