Ogston put a hand on the novelist's chair. "No. I'm off to a theatre-party. But I have a ticket for the Metropolitan. You don't either of you want it, do you?"
"Let me see, what is it, to-night?" Jones, with that same false smile, enquired. "And where is the seat?"
"In Paliser's box. He's to be alone and left it here with a note asking me to join him."
Deeply, beneath his breath, Jones swore, but with the same smile, he tried to shift the subject. "You're quite a belle, aren't you?"
"See here, Ogston," Lennox put in, "let me have it."
Ogston, fumbling in his white waistcoat, extracted the ticket and handed it over.
"By the way, Lennox, do you mind my doing a little touting for Cantillon? He's with Dunwoodie. Give him your law business—some of it, anyhow."
"I'll give him some, when I have it," answered Lennox, who was to have some, and sooner and far more monumentally, than either he, or even Jones, suspected.
"Good for you, Lennox. Good-night, Jones." The brilliant and beautifully dressed young man nodded and passed on.
But now the captain was bearing down on them.