Then, suddenly, he paused. It seemed that he had remembered something.
“By the way, Trenchard—I knew there was something. There’s a fellow in this Club, just been lunching with him. I don’t expect he’s gone. I want you to meet him, I was thinking about you at luncheon. He’s just come from Moscow, where he’s been two years.”
“Moscow?” said Henry.
“Yes. I’ll go and find him. He may have left if I don’t go now.”
Seymour hurried away to return an instant later with a very-much dressed young man in a purple suit and a high, shrill voice. He gave Henry a languid finger, said that he wouldn’t mind a drink, and sat down in front of the fire. Seymour began a fresh monologue, the young man (Morrison was his name) drank his whisky with a delicate foreign attitude which Henry greatly admired, said at last that he must be going. It was only then that Henry plucked up courage.
“I say—Seymour tells me you’ve just come from Moscow.”
“Yes—damned rotten town,” said Morrison, “two years of it—nearly killed me.”
“Did you happen to know,” said Henry, “a man there called Mark?”
“What! Phil Mark! Think I did!... Everyone knew Phil Mark! Hot stuff, my word!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Henry.