At the top of the stairs leading to the luncheon saloon, he paused, and glanced into the secret place reserved for those who have from early childhood voted for a Channel tunnel.
“There he is,” he whispered ecstatically, “our little Carl, busy recalling his past. It may be vulgar, Ted: doubtless it is. I don’t care. Such trifles matter not in the supreme moments of one’s life; and I can imagine of only one more supreme than this.”
“What’s that?” asked Ted, firmly piloting him down the stairs.
“The moment when he and Henry sit side by side and recall their pasts together,” murmured Hugh solemnly. “Think of it, man—think of it! Each cursin’ the other between spasms. My hat! What a wonderful, lovely dream to treasure through the weary years!” He gazed abstractedly at the waiter. “Roast beef—underdone,” he remarked, “and take a plate of cold fat up to the silence room above. The third gentleman from the door would like to look at it.”
But the third gentleman from the door, even in the midst of his agony, was consoled by one reflection.
“Should it be necessary, letter awaits him.” So had run the telegram, which he had scattered to the winds right under Drummond’s nose. And it was necessary. The mutton-headed young sweep had managed to escape once again: though Petro had assured him that the wretched native had never yet failed. And he personally had seen the man clamber on to the top of the cupboard....
For a moment his furious rage overcame his sufferings.... Next time ... next time ... and then the seventh wave of several seventh waves arrived. He had a fleeting glimpse of the scoundrel Drummond, apparently on the other end of a see-saw, watching him delightedly from outside; then, with a dreadful groan, he snatched his new basin, just supplied by a phlegmatic steward, from the scoundrel next him, who had endeavoured to appropriate it.
IV
“Walk right in, Mr. Green,” said Hugh, as, three hours later, they got out of a taxi in Half Moon Street. “This is my little rabbit-hutch.”
He followed the American up the stairs, and produced his latchkey. But before he could even insert it in the hole the door was flung open, and Peter Darrell stood facing him with evident relief in his face.