Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man stood before him, a furtive twinkle in his pale blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up, and they two were now alone in the smoking-room—saving the presence of a steward yawning sleepily and wishing to ’Eaven they’d turn in and give ’im a charnce to snatch a wink o’ sleep.
“Hello,” said Staff, none too cordially. “What d’ you mean by that?”
“Hello,” responded Iff, dropping upon the cushioned seat beside him. He snapped his fingers at the steward. “Give it a name,” said he.
Staff gave it a name. “You don’t answer me,” he persisted. “Why pity the poor playwright?”
“He has his troubles,” quoth Mr. Iff cheerfully, if vaguely. “Need I enumerate them, to you? Anyway, if the poor playwright isn’t to be pitied, what right ’ve you got to stick round here looking like that?”
“Oh!” Staff laughed uneasily. “I was thinking....”
“I flattered you to the extent of surmising as much.” Iff elevated one of the glasses which had just been put before them. “Chin-chin,” said he—“that is, if you’ve no particular objection to chin-chinning with a putative criminal of the d’p’st dye?”
“None whatever,” returned Staff, lifting his own glass—“at least, not so long as it affords me continued opportunity to watch him cooking up his cunning little crimes.”
“Ah!” cried Iff with enthusiasm—“there spoke the true spirit of Sociological Research. Long may you rave!”
He set down an empty glass.