“Yes,” said Leronde, putting out his tongue and running the edge of a newly rolled cigarette paper along the moist tip. “I go to see him yesterday.”
“Well. What did he say?”
“And I ask him to come for an hour to the Vivarium to see the new ballet.”
“I asked you what he said.”
“He say—‘Go to the devil.’”
“Well, did you go?”
“Yes. I come on here at once.”
Pacey glowered at him, but his French friend was innocent of any double entendre; and at that moment there was a sharp knock at the outer door—the well-worn oak on the staircase of Number 9 Bolt Inn.
“Aha! Vive la compagnie!” cried Leronde.
“Humph! Some one for money,” muttered Pacey. “Who can it be? Well, it doesn’t matter: I’ve got none.—Here, dandy,” he said aloud, “open the door. Shut the other first, and tell whoever it is that I cannot see him. Engaged—ill—anything you like.”