“There is another point of view,” the latter retorted. “I call it a crime to expect a body of intelligent men to administer without emolument to the greed of such a crowd of rotters. You'll get the right stuff next week.”
The hall-porter approached and addressed Wilmore.
“Mr. Ledsam is outside in a taxi, sir,” he announced.
“Outside in a taxi?” the lawyer repeated. “Why on earth can't he come in?”
“I never heard such rot,” another declared. “Let's go and rope him in.”
“Mr. Ledsam desired me to say, sir,” the hall porter continued, “to any of his friends who might be here, that he will be in to lunch to-morrow.”
“Leave him to me till then,” Wilmore begged. “He'll be all right directly. He's simply altering his bearings and taking his time about it. If he's promised to lunch here to-morrow, he will. He's as near as possible through the wood. Coming up in the train, he suggested a little conversation to-night and afterwards the normal life. He means it, too. There's nothing neurotic about Ledsam.”
The magistrate nodded.
“Run along, then, my merry Andrew,” he said, “but see that Ledsam keeps his word about to-morrow.”
Andrew Wilmore plunged boldly into the forbidden subject later on that evening, as the two men sat side by side at one of the wall tables in Soto's famous club restaurant. They had consumed an excellent dinner. An empty champagne bottle had just been removed, double liqueur brandies had taken its place. Francis, with an air of complete and even exuberant humanity, had lit a huge cigar. The moment seemed propitious.