“We lunch together, I presume,” quizzed Beresford.
“You presume correctly, Maurice.”
“Toss you who pays—drinks included.”
“Not much. You asked me to have a drink. But I’ll toss you for lunch.” The sovereign clinked on the bar-top. Peter won.
They finished their drinks; settled themselves at the usual reserved table by the fire; ordered—after some wrangling—completely different lunches: for Beresford (who possessed, despite his size, an enormous appetite) grilled sole, fricassee of veal, and plum duff; for Peter, surfeited with greasy food, cold beef and pickled walnuts.
“And now,” said Beresford, sipping his whisky and Perrier, “be a good boy and tell me all you’ve been up to in Hamburg.”
“Lies, or the truth?”
“The truth. Just for a change.”
Peter cut a morsel of beef with great deliberation; decided that Beresford probably knew.
“I think I’ve done you in the eye this time, Maurice.”