He was sitting before the dressing-table in his shirt-sleeves, arranging his lace cravat, when word was brought to him that Sir Roland Pommeroy was below and desired a word with him.
“Show him up,” said the Viscount briefly, sticking a pin in the cravat. He picked up his solitaire, a narrow band of black ribbon, and was engaged in clipping this round his neck when Sir Roland walked in.
The Viscount looked up and met his friend’s eyes in the mirror. Sir Roland was looking very solemn; he shook his head slightly, and heaved a sigh.
“Don’t need you any longer, Corney,” said the Viscount, dismissing his valet.
The door closed discreetly behind the man. The Viscount swung round in his chair, and leaned his arms along the back of it. “How drunk was I last night?” he demanded.
Sir Roland looked more lugubrious than ever. “Pretty drunk, Pel. You wanted to pull that fellow Drelincourt’s nose.”
“That don’t prove I was drunk,” said the Viscount impatiently. “But I can’t get it out of my head that my sister Rule had something to do with it. Did she or did she not say she hit Lethbridge over the head with a poker?”
“A poker, was it?” exclaimed Sir Roland. “Could not for the life of me remember what it was she said she hit him with! That was it! Then you went off to see if he was dead.” The Viscount cursed softly. “And I took her l’ship home.” He frowned. “And what’s more, she said I was to wait on her this morning!”
“It’s the devil of a business,” muttered the Viscount. “What in God’s name was she doing in the fellow’s house?”
Sir Roland coughed. “Naturally—needn’t tell you—can rely on me, Pel. Awkward affair—mum’s the word.”