"Will you come in and have a peg with me?" His invitation was cordial. "I'm all alone—just back from India, and if you can spare five minutes, I'll be glad of your company."
"Thanks." Anstice was curiously attracted towards the man. "I'm killing time, waiting for a train, and I'll come with pleasure."
They went up the steps of the building outside which the accident had occurred; and five minutes later his new friend, brushed and tidied, every speck of dust removed from his well-cut suit, led him to a comfortable corner of the smoking-room and invited him to take a seat, calling to a waiter as they sat down.
"What will you drink—whisky-and-soda? Right—I'll have the same—a large whisky for me," he said, as the man moved away. "I really feel as though I want a stiff drink," he added, rather apologetically, to Anstice.
"I expect you do—your taxi came a fearful bump on the kerb," said Anstice, "You were lucky not to get shoved through the window."
"Yes—it was down, fortunately, or I might have got in quite a nasty mess with cut glass." He hesitated a moment. "By the way, shall we exchange cards? Here's mine, at any rate."
He laughed and pushed the slip of pasteboard over to Anstice, who returned the courtesy before picking it up. But as the latter glanced at it perfunctorily, with no premonition of the surprise in store for him, the name he read thereon sent a sudden thrill through his veins; and he uttered a quite involuntary exclamation which caused his companion to look up in amazement.
For by one of those strange coincidences which happen every day, yet never lose their strangeness, the man who sat opposite to Anstice on this murky November afternoon was Chloe Carstairs' husband, Major Carstairs.