Max's face hardened somewhat. "That fellow Hunt-Goring," he said. "He's the chap I told you of. Keep clear of him!"
Noel stiffened. "I should like to kill him," he said.
"Yes, but you can't. He's more than a match for you. He once had some hold over Olga—something very slight. I never bothered to find out what. But she has broken away and he is an enemy in consequence. Watch out for him, but don't fall foul of him! He won't worry you for long. He is taking opium enough to kill an ox every day of his life."
"Is he though? Well, no one will weep for him."
"Unless it's Mrs. Musgrave," observed Max drily.
"She doesn't like the bounder," declared Noel with conviction. "Look here; sit down again! I've seen nothing of you yet."
"No, I can't stop, thanks. I've said good-bye to everyone else, and time is up. Don't go and get smashed up at polo! If she doesn't want you now, she will very soon. Bear that in mind!"
Noel's dark eyes shone. "The only risks I'm likely to take would be for her safety. I wish to Heaven Ratcliffe could be made to see the danger they are in."
Max smiled a little. "I've been talking to him. We touched on that point. He knows—rather more on the subject than we do."
"But he makes light of it," Noel protested. "The place is infested with budmashes and he rather encourages them than otherwise. I myself kicked an old blackguard of a moonstone-seller—or so he described himself—off his premises only the other night."