And Hugh watched the man, whom he now knew to be one of the extremist members of Parliament, walk over and glance at the book. He saw him conceal a smile, and then Vallance Nestor carried the good work on.
“We’ll see what he says about you—impertinent blackguard.”
Rapidly he turned the pages, and Hugh glanced over Crofter’s shoulder at the dossier.
He just had time to read: “Crofter, John. A consummate blackguard. Playing entirely for his own hand. Needs careful watching,” when the subject of the remarks, his face convulsed with fury, spun round and faced him.
“Who wrote that?” he snarled.
“Must have been Mr. Peterson,” answered Hugh placidly. “I see you had five thousand out of him, so perhaps he considers himself privileged. A wonderful judge of character, too,” he murmured, turning away to greet Mr. Ditchling, who arrived somewhat opportunely, in company with a thin pale man—little more than a youth—whose identity completely defeated Drummond.
“My God!” Crofter was livid with rage. “Me and Peterson will have words this afternoon. Look at this, Ditchling.” On second thoughts he turned over some pages. “We’ll see what this insolent devil has to say about you.”
“Drinks!” Ditchling thumped the table with a heavy fist. “What the hell does he mean? Say you, Mr. Secretary—what’s the meaning of this?”
“They represent Mr. Peterson’s considered opinions of you all,” said Hugh genially. “Perhaps this other gentleman ...”
He turned to the pale youth, who stepped forward with a surprised look. He seemed to be not quite clear what had upset the others, but already Nestor had turned up his name.