"You are the gentleman who sat in the three-shilling seats," Rose remarked, looking at him curiously.
Mr. Richard Thomson bowed.
"I was there last night and the night before," he acknowledged. "On each occasion I found with regret that I was alone."
No one likes to be reminded of failure. I answered a little hastily.
"You have established your position, sir, as a patron of our ill-omened enterprise. May I ask to what we are indebted for the honour of this visit?"
"In the first place, to invite you all to supper," was the brisk reply. "Secondly, to ask if I can be of any service in helping you to get rid of that bearded rascal Drummond, whom I see hanging about at the entrance. And in the third place—but I think," he added, after a queer and oddly prolonged pause, "that we might leave that till afterwards."
I stared at him like a booby, for I was never a believer in miracles. The quiver on Rose's lips was almost pathetic, for like all sweet-natured women she was an optimist to the last degree. Leonard, I could see, shared my incredulity. The thing didn't seem possible, for although he was obviously a man of means, and although his manner was convincing and there was a smile upon his lips, Mr. Richard Thomson did not look in the least like a philanthropist.
"Come, come," the latter continued, "mine is a serious offer. Are you afraid that I shall need payment for my help and hospitality? What more could you have to give than the souls you proffered so freely as I came in?"
"You can have mine," Leonard assured him hastily.
"Mine also is at your service," I told him. "The only trouble seems to be to reduce it to a negotiable medium."