“No.”
At that moment the voice of Sir Roland Pommeroy was heard, calling to his friend. He too put his head round the door, and, perceiving the Viscount, came in. “You’re to come home,” he said briefly. “Gave my word to my lady I’d take you home.”
The Viscount pointed a finger at his unwilling host. “He ain’t dead, Pom. Told you he wouldn’t be.”
Sir Roland turned to look closely at Lethbridge. “No, he ain’t dead,” he admitted with some reluctance. “Nothing for it but to go home.”
“Blister it, that’s a tame way to end the night,” protested the Viscount. “Play you a game of piquet.”
“Not in this house,” said Lethbridge, picking up his wig and putting it cautiously on his head again.
“Why not in this house?” demanded the Viscount.
The question was destined to remain unanswered. Yet a third visitor had arrived.
“My dear Lethbridge, pray forgive me, but this odious rain! Not a chair to be had, positively not a chair nor a hackney! And your door standing wide I stepped in to shelter. I trust I don’t intrude?” said Mr Drelincourt, peeping into the room.
“Oh, not in the least!” replied Lethbridge ironically. “By all means come in! I rather think that I have no need to introduce Lord Winwood and Sir Roland Pommeroy to you?”