"That sounds like an epigram," smiled Frank.
He looked at his watch as he descended the stairs. It was nine o'clock and he had not dined; he would go up to an eating house in Soho and have his frugal meal before he retired for the night. He had had a heavy day, and a heavier day threatened on the morrow. Outside the newspaper office was a handsome new car, its lacquer work shining in the electric light. Frank was passing when the chauffeur called him.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, touching his cap, "are you Mr. Frank Doughton?"
"That is my name," said Frank, in surprise, for he did not recognize the man.
"I have been asked to call and pick you up, sir."
"Pick me up?" asked the astonished Frank—"by whom?"
"By Sir George Frederick," said the man, respectfully.
Frank knew the name of the member of Parliament and puzzled his brain as to whether he had ever met him.
"But what does Sir George want with me?" he asked.