“We will do any mortal thing you like, Max, if you will allow Parkinson to administer a bromo-seltzer and then enable me to meet the officials of the Direct Insurance without a blush.”
For three minutes Carrados picked his unerring way among the furniture as he paced the room silently but with irresolution in his face. Twice his hand went to a paper-covered book lying on his desk, and twice he left it untouched.
“Have you ever been in the lion-house at feeding-time, Louis?” he demanded abruptly.
“In the very remote past, possibly,” admitted Mr Carlyle guardedly.
“As the hour approaches it is impossible to interest the creatures with any other suggestion than that of raw meat. You came a day too late, Louis.” He picked up the book and skimmed it adroitly into Mr Carlyle’s hands. “I have already scented the gore, and tasted in imagination the joy of tearing choice morsels from other similarly obsessed animals.”
“‘Catalogue des monnaies grecques et romaines,’” read the gentleman. “‘To be sold by auction at the Hotel Drouet, Paris, salle 8, April the 24th, 25th, etc.’ H’m.” He turned to the plates of photogravure illustration which gave an air to the volume. “This is an event, I suppose?”
“It is the sort of dispersal we get about once in three years,” replied Carrados. “I seldom attend the little sales, but I save up and then have a week’s orgy.”
“And when do you go?”
“To-day. By the afternoon boat—Folkestone. I have already taken rooms at Mascot’s. I’m sorry it has fallen so inopportunely, Louis.”
Mr Carlyle rose to the occasion with a display of extremely gentlemanly feeling—which had the added merit of being quite genuine.