“I’ve no idea,” said Lethbridge. “It has been puzzling me for some time.”
“If a man gives a party, he ought to know what kind of a party it is,” argued the Viscount. “If you don’t know, how are we to know? It might be a damned soiree, in which case we wouldn’t have come. Let’s go home, Pom.”
He took Sir Roland’s arm and walked with him to the door. There Sir Roland bethought himself of something, and turned back. “Very pleasant evening, my lord,” he said formally, and bowed, and went out in the Viscount’s wake.
Mr Drelincourt waited until the two bottle-companions were well out of earshot, and gave a mirthless titter. “I did not know you was so friendly with Winwood,” he said. “I do trust I have not broke up your party? But the rain, you know! Not a chair to be had.”
“Rid yourself of the notion that any of you are here by my invitation,” said Lethbridge unpleasantly, and moved across to the table.
Something had caught Mr Drelincourt’s eye. He bent, and picked up from under the corner of the Persian rug a ring brooch of diamonds and pearls of antique design. His jaw dropped; he shot a quick, acute glance at Lethbridge, who was tossing off a glass of wine. The next moment the brooch was in his pocket, and as Lethbridge turned he said airily: “I beg a thousand pardons! I daresay the rain will have stopped. You must permit me to take my leave.”
“With pleasure,” said Lethbridge.
Mr Drelincourt’s eye ran over the supper-table laid for two; he wondered where Lethbridge had hidden his fair visitor. “Don’t, I implore you, put yourself to the trouble of coming to the door!”
“I wish to assure myself that it is shut,” said Lethbridge grimly, and ushered him out.
Some hours later the Viscount awoke to a new but considerably advanced day, with the most imperfect recollections of the night’s happenings. He remembered enough, however, to cause him, as soon as he had swallowed some strong coffee, to fling off the bedclothes and spring up, shouting for his valet.