CHAPTER VIII
IN LOVEMAN’S LIBRARY
The drowsy elevator boy carried Clifford to the eleventh floor, and Clifford rang Loveman’s bell. After a moment the door was opened by Loveman’s Japanese butler, to whom Clifford, after stepping in, gave his card. The little Oriental, showing no slightest surprise at a call at such an hour, disappeared noiselessly through a door; and reappeared after a brief delay and held the door open as a sign that Clifford was to enter.
Clifford stepped through the doorway and found himself in the large richly furnished library of Peter Loveman. Loveman, in a rope-girdled dressing-gown and with his tonsured head looking very much a jolly little monk, crossed the room with smiling hospitality. In a deep, tapestried chair, wearing a dinner jacket, sat the square figure of Bradley.
“This is a surprise, Clifford!” cried Loveman, taking his hand. “And a pleasure, too,—also a relief: dropping in on a pair of grouches, just as they were getting ready to murder each other to drive dull care away. You there, you other grouch,”—to Bradley,—“say good-evening to our relief expedition.”
Bradley, without rising, nodded curtly. Clifford gave back a similar greeting.
“Off with your overcoat, Clifford,” the little man said briskly, “and make yourself comfortable.”
“I’ll keep it on, Loveman. I can only stay a few minutes.”
“Well, anyhow, sit down,” and Loveman pushed him into a chair and gestured toward a little table on which stood bottles and glasses and siphons. “All the ingredients here of the Fountain of Perpetual Youth: what’ll you have—high-ball, cocktail, liqueur—or shall I have Oni bring you a split of champagne?”
“Thanks, I’m not drinking to-night.”
“Smoke, then?” offering cigars and cigarettes.