Mr. Flint accepted the situation, and was equal to it.
“I understand,” he said; “but this is business in which Mr. Romer is personally interested. We must see him to-night. To-morrow morning will be too late. If you know where he is, you’d better tell us. Otherwise, I shan’t answer for his displeasure.”
“Oh, in that case,” said the old lady, quite deceived by Mr. Flint’s white lie, “in that case, you’ll find him dining at the * * * Club. At least, he said he should dine there, when he left the house this morning.”
“Thank you, madam,” said Mr. Flint. In the carriage, “Bless my soul!” he added. “It couldn’t have fallen out better. I’m a member of the * * * Club, myself.”
They entered the club-house. Mr. Flint led Arthur and Hetzel into the reception-room, where, for a moment, he left them alone. Shortly returning, “Mr. Romer,” he announced, “is in the bowling-alley—hasn’t yet gone up to dinner. I’ve sent him my card.”
In due time Romer appeared, his face flushed by recent exercise. Catching sight of Arthur, “What, you—Ripley?” he exclaimed. “I’d fust been telling the fellows down-stairs about—that is—I—well, I—I’m real glad to see you.”
“Mr. Romer,” said Mr. Flint, plunging in medias res, “I have ventured to disturb you in your leisure for the purpose of offering bail in the case of Mrs. Ripley, who, I am informed, was taken in custody to-day by your officers.”
“Oh,” said Romer, “a question of bail.”
“Yes—we want to give bail for the lady at once—in any amount that you may wish—but without delay. She must be out of prison before to-morrow morning.”
“Hum,” mused Romer, “I don’t see how you’ll manage it.”