“Thank you for nothing,” said the surgeon indignantly.
Angel struck a more serious tone when he asked the surgeon in an undertone, just as they were taking their departure—
“Where will you be to-night?”
The surgeon consulted a little engagement book.
“I am dining at the ‘Ritz’ with some people at eight. We are going on to the Gaiety afterwards, and I shall be home by twelve. Why?”
“There’s a gentleman,” said Angel confidentially, “who will make a valiant attempt to kill one of us, or both of us to-night, and he might just fail; so it would be as well to know where you are, if you are wanted. Mind you,” added Angel with a grin, “you might be wanted for him.”
“You’re a queer bird,” said the surgeon, “and Jimmy’s a queerer one. Well, off you go, you two fellows; you’ll be getting my house a bad name.”
Outside in the street the two ingrates continued their discussion on the corpulency that attends success in life.
They walked leisurely to Piccadilly, and turned towards the circus. It is interesting to record the fact that for no apparent reason they struck off into side streets, made unexpected excursions into adjoining squares, took unnecessary short cuts through mews, and finally, finding themselves at the Oxford Street end of Charing Cross Road, they hailed a hansom, and drove eastward rapidly. Angel shouted up some directions through the trap in the roof.
“I am moved to give the two gentlemen who are following me what in sporting parlance is called ‘a run for their money,’” he said.