“You may stay if you think it advisable, of course. But suppose that as things fall out we find ourselves being drawn to—”
“I know what you’re going to say and I’m convinced it’s entirely out of the question.”
“Then you’re in?”
“I’m in.”
“All right,” said Alleyn. “Gibson!” The door opened. “I’m ready for Lord Charles, if he can come.”
III
Alleyn had grown accustomed to Lord Charles’s walk. It recalled vividly a year out of his own past. From 1919 to 1920 Alleyn’s youthful and speculative gaze had followed tail-coated figures hurrying with discretion through the labyrinths of diplomatic corridors. These figures had moved with the very gait of Lord Charles Lamprey and Alleyn wondered if at any time he had been among them. He came into the dining-room with this well-remembered air, taking out his eye-glass as he moved to the table. There was a kind of amateurish gravity about him, linked to an expression of guarded courtesy. He was one of those blond men at whose age it is difficult to guess. Somewhere, Alleyn thought, between forty-five and fifty.
“You will be glad to hear, sir,” said Alleyn, “that we have nearly finished for to-night.”
“Oh yes,” said Lord Charles. “Splendid. Hullo, Nigel. Still with us? That’s good.”
“He’s asked for an unofficial watching-brief,” Alleyn explained. “Subject, of course, to your approval.”