“I am for the giddy whirl,” Felixstowe declared promptly. “I have eaten strange and delicious food of an exhilarating character. The flavour of terrapin is upon my palate. I am imbibing New York. It is getting into my blood.”
“You are also imbibing a considerable quantity of Pommery,” Jacob observed. “I may have letters for the English mail at nine o’clock to-morrow morning, remember.”
“You will find me waiting by your bedside,” the young man promised. “To-night the magic of a strange city calls.”
“If you will take the car home, Mr. Pratt,” Morse suggested, “Lord Felixstowe and I will take a taxi—that is to say, unless you care to join us.”
Jacob shook his head.
“Show Lord Felixstowe everything there is to be seen,” he begged. “As soon as my brother is out of danger, I’ll have a turn around myself.”
Towards three o’clock, Jacob, who was reading in bed, heard stealthy footsteps in the next room. He coughed and Felixstowe at once entered.
“So you’ve got back,” Jacob remarked, laying down his book.
Felixstowe’s tie had escaped an inch or two to the right, his theatre hat was set well on the back of his head, his expression was beatific.