“That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max,” he remarked thoughtfully. “But, of course——”
“I don’t think that he would take it,” replied Carrados, in a voice of equally detached speculation. “He suits me very well. But you have the chance of using his services—indirectly.”
“You still mean that—seriously?”
“I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis. It is really—to an Englishman—almost painful. Is there something inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?”
“No, my friend,” replied Mr Carlyle, “but there is something essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what is it?”
“It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that,” replied Carrados. “It is, well, partly vanity, partly ennui, partly”—certainly there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now—“partly hope.”
Mr Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject.
“Those are three tolerable motives,” he acquiesced. “I’ll do anything you want, Max, on one condition.”
“Agreed. And it is?”
“That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair.” He tapped the silver coin which lay on the table near them. “I am not easily flabbergasted,” he added.