“He’s human anyway,” said Elk.
Hagn came at that moment, smiling, affable, willing to oblige.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Captain,” he said. “You want me to pass you in? Gentlemen, there is no necessity! Every police officer of rank is an honorary member of the club.”
He bustled in, threading his way between the tables, and found them a vacant sofa in one of the alcoves. There were revellers whose faces showed alarm at the arrival of the new guests—one at least stole forth and did not come back.
“We have many notable people here to-night,” said Hagn, rubbing his hands. “There are Lord and Lady Belfin” . . . he mentioned others; “and that gentleman with the beard is the great Maitland . . . his secretary is here somewhere. Poor gentleman, I fear he is not happy. But I invited him myself—it is sometimes desirable that we should elect the . . . what shall I say? . . . higher servants of important people?”
“Johnson?” asked Dick in surprise. “Where?”
Presently he saw that plump and philosophical man. He sat in a remote corner, looking awkward and miserable in his old-fashioned dress clothes. Before him was a glass which, Dick guessed, contained an orange squash.
A solemn, frightened figure he made, sitting on the edge of his chair, his big red hands resting on the table. Dick Gordon laughed softly and whispered to Elk:
“Go and get him!”
Elk, who was never self-conscious, walked through the dancers and reached Mr. Johnson, who looked up startled and shook hands with the vigour of one rescued from a desert island.