I replied that I had heard so.
"God help the girl," she muttered; whereupon apologizing for the trouble I had given her I walked away. The name of God in her throat, and applied in such a case, sickened me. Directly I saw a taxi I hailed it. Dandy and I jumped in.
"The Lyric Club," said I.
It was just the club to which I should have expected him to belong. I had often heard of its members and their habits. They were a dissolute lot, composed of those impecunious young men who manage to subsist in some marvellous way upon their debts, maintaining an appearance of affluence by superficiality of manner and a certain smart way of dressing themselves, which will continue to deceive tradesmen as long as the world goes round. Their main object in life is to obtain money, and that without working for it. Wherefore they have a thousand little irons in the fire. Here they know some young man who has written a play; there they know some young man with money who is fool enough to put it on, and between the two they manage to derive some pecuniary benefit out of other people's brains which enables them to make their way, backing horses and playing cards for the next month or so.
Young Fennell must have been clearly eligible for such membership. I could have conceived no more fitting reputation for him than to say that he belonged to the Lyric Club.
The hall-porter was almost asleep when I entered. To my inquiries as to whether Mr. Fennell were in the club, he slowly opened his eyes and beckoned to a page-boy.
"Is Mr. Fennell in the club?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Has he been in lately?" I inquired.
The hall-porter shook his head.