“It’s a great story,” Reggie chuckled. “But really—Well, I ask you!” and he slid away.
In the hotel lounge he found Bell and Lomas and cocktails. “Pleasure before business, as ever,” he reproached them, and ordered one for himself.
“And what have you been doing, then?” Lomas asked.
“I have been consoling the Fourth Estate. That great institution the Press, Mr. Lomas, sir. Through one of Gilligan’s young lions. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings——”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk to reporters,” Lomas complained.
“You’re so haughty. By the way, what was Ludlow Blenkinhorn doing here?” He referred to a solicitor of more ability than standing. “Osbert was here and his solicitor, the young Deans and their solicitor. Who was old Blenkinhorn representing?”
Bell and Lomas looked at each other. “Didn’t see the fellow,” said Lomas.
“Mr. Fortune’s quite right, sir. Blenkinhorn was standing with the public. And that’s odd, too.”
“Highly odd. Lomas, my dear old thing, I wish you’d watch Blenkinhorn’s office and Osbert’s flat for any chaps who look a bit exotic, a bit foreign—and follow him up if you find one.”
Lomas groaned. “Surely we’ve done with the case.”