“Well, sit down and have a cup of coffee. I’ll walk out with you presently.”
Scrivener, otherwise Dawson, complied. The two men drank coffee together. Then Rowton rose from his seat.
“We can take a turn on the Embankment,” he said.
A moment later the men were seen walking side by side on the Thames Embankment. The morning was a fine one, and a fresh breeze from the river blew on their faces. A man with a smooth face and a perfectly innocent expression passed them slowly. He looked full at Rowton, who nodded to him.
“That is my servant, Jacob,” he said, turning to Scrivener. “What is he doing here?”
“Mischief,” muttered Scrivener. “We had best not be seen in such an open place as this. Let us turn up this by-street into the Strand.”
The men did so. From the Strand they passed into a narrow court. In the court was a public-house. They entered it, asked for a private room, and sat down by the fire. Scrivener took out his pipe and lighted it, but Rowton did not smoke.
“Now,” said Rowton, “your business, and quickly.”
“The boss is sorry you parted from him in anger,” said Scrivener. “There’s a wine party at our club to-night, and I was to bring you a special invitation. Long John has sent it to you himself. Matters may be smoothed over. Long John naturally does not want to get into your black books. Will you come, or will you not? That is the question.”
“When I left the club yesterday evening,” said Rowton, “I said I would never darken its doors again.”