“Good Heavens!” said Her Grace in a shocked voice. “How very dreadful! What is he doing? Watching the guests, or keeping a friendly eye on the Carter woman’s spoons?”
The young man guffawed.
“Don’t despise old Angel, Duchess,” he said. “He’s a man to know. Great fellow for putting things right. If you have a row with your governor, or get into the hands of—er—undesirables, or generally, if you’re in a mess of any kind, Angel’s the chap to pull you out.”
Her Grace surveyed the admirable man with a new interest.
Angel Esquire, with a cup of tea in one hand and a thin grass sandwich in the other, was the center of a group of men, including the husband of the hostess. He was talking with some animation.
“I held three aces pat, and opened the pot light to let ’em in. Young Saville raised the opening to a tenner, and the dealer went ten better. George Manfred, who had passed, came in for a pony, and took one card. I took two, and drew another ace. Saville took one, and the dealer stood pat. I thought it was my money, and bet a pony. Saville raised it to fifty, the dealer made it a hundred, and George Manfred doubled the bet. It was up to me. I had four aces; I put Saville with a ‘full,’ and the dealer with a ‘flush.’ I had the beating of that lot; but what about Manfred? Manfred is a feller with all the sense going. He knew what the others had. If he bet, he had the goods, so I chucked my four aces into the discard. George had a straight flush.”
A chorus of approval came from the group.
If “An Officer of Twenty Years’ Standing” had been a listener, he might well have been further strengthened in his opinion that of all persons Mr. Angel was least fitted to fill the responsible position he did.
If the truth be told, nobody quite knew exactly what position Angel did hold. If you turn into New Scotland Yard and ask the janitor at the door for Mr. Christopher Angel—Angel Esquire by the way was a nickname affixed by a pert little girl—the constable, having satisfied himself as to your bona-fides, would take you up a flight of stairs and hand you over to yet another officer, who would conduct you through innumerable swing doors, and along uncounted corridors till he stopped before a portal inscribed “647.” Within, you would find Angel Esquire sitting at his desk, doing nothing, with the aid of a Sporting Life and a small weekly guide to the Turf.
Once Mr. Commissioner himself walked into the room unannounced, and found Angel so immersed in an elaborate calculation, with big sheets of paper closely filled with figures, and open books on either hand, that he did not hear his visitor.