"Good-night, captain!" replied the old baronet cordially, as he turned away. "Good-night to you, sir!"
Captain Francis Newcombe watched the other leave the room, then he walked over to the window. The drizzle had developed into a downpour with gusts of wind that now pelted the rain viciously at the window panes. He frowned at the streaming glass.
A moment later, as he moved away from the window, he consulted his watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Downstairs he secured his hat and stick, and spoke to the doorman.
"Get a taxi, please, Martin," he requested, "and tell the chap to drive me home."
He lighted a cigarette as he waited, and then under the shelter of the doorman's umbrella entered the taxi.
It was not far. The taxi stopped before a flat in a fashionable neighbourhood that was quite in keeping with the fashionable club Captain Francis Newcombe had just left. His man admitted him.
"It's a filthy night, Runnells," said the ex-captain of territorials.
Runnells slammed the door against a gust of wind.
"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells.