"Hullo, Nervy, old chap!" was the familiar greeting that came from a big and genial man, clean-shaved, about thirty years of age, and dressed seasonably in a dark, astrachan-trimmed overcoat. In a word, the speaker was a faultlessly attired Englishman, whose great frame and smiling features seemed to bring into the tragic atmosphere a most desirable air of commonplace.
"Bob Saunders!" ejaculated Trafford.
"The same," affirmed the other, throwing off his overcoat and sinking lazily into the most comfortable chair he could find; "Robert Saunders, old cricket blue, devoted husband of a peerless wife, the friend of kings and the king of friends—voila!"
By this time Trafford had composed himself sufficiently to ask:
"What in the deuce are you doing over here? How did you find——"
"Been camping on your trail, old man,—as you Yankees say," interrupted the Englishman. "In the first place, the wife and I have been doing the States. To-night, as we were leaving the New Theatre, I caught sight of you—sung out to you—but you were off like a shot. I put Mrs. Saunders—divine creature!—into a taxi and sent her to the hotel. Then I gave chase. I tracked you here, and your door being open, took the liberty to walk in. But you don't look well, old chap!" he went on, noticing at length the exceptional pallor of his friend's face. "You look rotten! What's up, Nervy? Liver? Money?"
Trafford pointed silently to the table; at the sight of the revolver Saunders' face grew grave.
"As bad as that?" he asked. He was genuinely shocked, but his tone was commonplace, almost casual.
"As bad as that," breathed Trafford.
Saunders caught sight of the envelope, glanced at the address and at once proceeded to open it.