"It will relax the strain on your intellect if you go and see who that is," suggested the painter.
"A telegram," said Hillary, strolling back from the door.
"Good heavens!" cried Lucas. "Read that."
Hillary read—
"Come immediately. Unfortunate complication here. Require you to explain fully.—Heriot Walkingshaw."
He looked considerably sobered.
"Of course I didn't really mean what I was saying—"
Lucas interrupted him brusquely.
"I'm off. Look after things here. What the devil—"
He strode down the lane, hailed a cab, and drove off to an accompaniment of the most anxious speculations.