CHAPTER XXXII
GERALD FOSLAND MAKES A SPEECH
Gerald Fosland, known to be so formal that he had once dressed to answer an emergency call from a friend at the hospital, because the message came in at six o’clock, surprised his guests by appearing before them, in the salon just before dinner, in his driving coat and with his motor cap in his hand.
“Sorry,” he informed them, with his stiff bow, “but an errand of such importance that it can not be delayed, causes Mrs. Fosland and myself to return to the city immediately for an hour or so. I am sincerely apologetic, and I trust that you will have a jolly dinner.”
“Is Gail going with you?” inquired the alert Mrs. Helen Davies, observing Gail in the gangway adjusting her furs.
“She has to chaperon me, while Gerald is busy,” Arly glibly explained. “Onery, Orey, Ickery, Ann, Filison, Foloson, Nicholas, John; Queevy, Quavy, English Navy, Stigalum, Stagalum, Buck. You’re it, Aunt Grace,” counted out Arly. “You and Uncle Jim have to be hosts. Good-bye!” and she sailed out to the deck, followed by the still troubled Gail, who managed to accomplish the laughing adieus for which Arly had set the precedence.
A swift ride in the launch, in the cool night air, to the landing; a brisk walk to the street, and, since no one had expected to come ashore until Monday, a search for a taxi; then Gerald, chatting with correct pleasantness through his submerged preoccupation, having seen the ladies safe under shelter, even if it were but the roof of a night hawk taxi, stopped at the first saloon, a queer place, of a sodden type which he had never before seen and would never see again. There he phoned half a dozen messages. There were four eager young men waiting in the reception room of the Fosland house, when Gerald’s party arrived, and three more followed them up the steps.
Gerald aided in divesting the ladies of their wraps, and slipped his own big top coat into the hands of William, and saw to his tie and the set of his waistcoat and the smoothness of his hair, before he stalked into the reception parlour and bowed stiffly.
“Gentlemen,” he observed, giving his moustache one last smoothing, “first of all, have you brought with you the written guarantees which I required from your respective chiefs, that, in whatsoever comes from the information I am about to give you, the names of your informants shall, under no circumstances, appear in print?”
One luckless young man, a fat-cheeked one, with a pucker in the corner of his lips where his cigar should have been, was unable to produce the necessary document, and he was under a scrutiny too close to give him a chance to write it.
“Sorry,” announced Gerald, with polite contrition. “As this is a very strict condition, I must ask you to leave the room while I address the remaining gentlemen.”