He went out in a hurry to the Temple, where he found Sturtevant in evening dress, white and haggard, walking up and down the room.
They got the cheque, and Sturtevant cashed it before lunch next morning, and at one o'clock they met in Gobion's rooms to divide the spoil. Over the meal—a dainty repast, ordered to celebrate their achievement—they were in the highest spirits. To-morrow they resolved that they would go to Cannes, or perhaps further still.
"We might do Madeira," said Sturtevant. "Think of the heat, the quivering air, the hum of the insects, ah-h!" He took a deep anticipatory breath, and as he did so the door opened and an elderly gentleman came in.
"I don't think I have the pleasure," said Gobion, rising from his chair.
"My name is Ringwood," said the stranger quietly. Gobion flinched as if he had been struck in the face. There was a strained, tense silence, only broken by the gurgling of the champagne in Sturtevant's glass as he raised it to his lips. Then he sneered, "Ah!" his lips curling away from his teeth.
Lord Ringwood struggled desperately to control himself. "Good God! what a damned couple of rascals you are!" he cried.
Gobion laughed a little sickly, pitiable laugh. "Fine day," he said.
The peer got up. "I see now what to do," he said. "I was a fool to come here. I'll have you both in gaol this afternoon."