“What Cup?” demanded Warden testily.
“The Liverpool Cup, sir.”
“Beer, of course.”
He escaped. But the cabman took thought. An eminent brewer’s horse figured in the betting lists, so he drove back at once to interview the hall porter. A joint speculation followed, and two men mourned for many a day that they had not begged or borrowed more money wherewith to win a competence on that amazingly lucky tip.
Warden did not expect to find any one at the Colonial Office who would attend to him. The hour was nearly seven, and it is a popular theory that at four o’clock all secretaries and civil servants throw aside the newspapers and other light literature with which they beguile the tedium of official routine. He meant to report his arrival in London, and learn from a door–keeper what time it would be advisable to call next day.
He was hardly prepared, therefore, to be received forthwith by a silver–haired, smooth–spoken gentleman, who asked him to recapitulate the main points of his conversation with the Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.
Somewhat mystified, Warden began his recital. After the first two sentences, the official nodded.
“Thank you, Captain Warden, I need not trouble you further,” he said. “You see, we are not personally known to each other, and in such an exceedingly delicate matter as this threatened difficulty in Nigeria—wherein knowledge is confined to a very small circle—one has to be careful that one is speaking to the right man.”
“Did you think it possible, then, that some stranger might have impersonated me?” demanded Warden, his eyes twinkling at the suggestion.
“Quite possible. I have done it myself twice, the first time successfully, the second to the complete satisfaction of our Minister abroad, but hardly to my own, as I had two fingers of my left hand shot off while making a dash for safety.”