“Yes, it’s Sherry,” agreed Mr Ringwood, staring fixedly at the Viscount. “Thought you was in the country.”
“So did I,” confessed Ferdy. He looked at his cousin, and, apparently feeling that something more was required of him, asked with friendly interest: “You back, Sherry?”
“Well, good God, you can see I am, can’t you?” retorted his lordship. “What the deuce are you doing here at this hour, and in that devilish dressing-gown?”
“Spent the evening at the Daffy Club,” explained Ferdy simply.
“Oh, castaway again, were you? Damme if ever I saw such a fellow!” said Sherry, hunting on the sideboard for a clean tankard, and pouring himself out a liberal libation of ale. He drew up a chair, pushing various trifles which reposed on it on to the floor, and sat down. “Gil, you’re a knowing one: I want your help!”
Mr Ringwood was so much moved by this unexpected tribute that he blushed, and dropped the Morning Chronicle. “Anything in my power, Sherry! Know you’ve only to give it a name!” he said. A disturbing thought occurred to him; he added mistrustfully: “As long as it isn’t to carry a message to George!”
“Carry a message to George?” repeated Sherry. “Why the deuce should I want a message carried to George?”
“Well, if it isn’t, it don’t matter. For I won’t do it, Sherry, and it’s no use asking me to.”
Mr Fakenham shook his head portentously. “Taken one of his pets,” he said. “Came smash up to me in Boodles yesterday, asking where you was. If I’d had my wits about me I’d have said you’d gone off to Leicestershire. Deuced sorry, Sherry! Never at my best before noon!”
“Oh hang George!” said Sherry. “He needn’t think he’s going to blow a hole through me, because he ain’t.”