“Oh, nonsense. You are good for another fifty years. Come, shake off this absurd depression. You can do no good by it. I wish now I had taken you with me to Monte Carlo. The fresh air would have braced you up while I hunted for Corbett.”
“Did you find him?”
“No, but I dropped in for an adventure that would cheer the soul of any depressed author searching vainly for an idea for a short story.”
“What was it?”
Claude, who possessed no mean skill as a raconteur, gave him the history of the Casino incident, and the thrilling dénouement so interested the baronet that he lit another cigar.
“Did you ascertain the names of the parties?” he said.
“Oh yes. You will respect their identity, as the sensational side of the affair had better now be buried in oblivion, though, of course, all the world knows about the way we scooped the bank. The lady is a daughter of Sir William Browne, a worthy knight from Warwickshire, and her rather rapid swain is a youngster named Mensmore.”
“Mensmore!” shouted the baronet. “A youngster, you say?” and Sir Charles bounced upright in his excitement.
“Why, yes, a man of twenty-five. No more than twenty-eight, I can swear. Do you know him?”
“Albert Mensmore?”