The Viscount pushed his nightcap to the back of his head and strove to collect his scattered wits. “What’s fixed?” he said thickly.
“Lord man, your meeting!” said Sir Roland, shocked.
“Meeting?” The Viscount brightened. “Have I called someone out? Well, by all that’s famous!”
Sir Roland, casting a dispassionate and expert eye over his principal, got up and went over to the wash-basin and dipped one of his lordship’s towels in cold water. This he wrung out and silently handed to the Viscount, who took it gratefully and bound it round his aching brow. It seemed to assist him to clear his brain, for presently he said: “Quarrelled with someone, did I? Damme, my head’s like to split! Devilish stuff, that burgundy.”
“More likely the brandy,” said Sir Roland gloomily. “You drank a deal of it.”
“Did I so? You know, there was something about a hat—a damned thing with pink roses. It’s coming back to me.” He clasped his head in his hands, while Sir Roland sat and picked his teeth in meditative patience. “By God, I have it! I’ve called Crosby out!” suddenly exclaimed the Viscount.
“No, you haven’t,” corrected Sir Roland. “He called you. You wiped your feet on his hat, Pel.”
“Ay, so I did, but that wasn’t it,” said the Viscount, his brow darkening.
Sir Roland removed the gold toothpick from his mouth, and said succinctly: “Tell you what, Pel, it had best be the hat.”
The Viscount nodded. “It’s the devil’s own business,” he said ruefully. “Ought to have stopped me.”