The husband in his shirt-sleeves was all for speculation upon the affair—speculation at large, illustrated by reminiscences. Duplessis was a good gambit; but the moment he had opened by saying that many a time had he stood behind Mr. Duplessis’s chair at the Reform he found himself rehearsing to his wife things that she had heard but an hour ago. Senhouse had snapped out his “Reform! Thanks,” and gone his way.
At the Reform—Bingo coiled on the steps, with one eye wary for peril—he learned that Duplessis was in Devonshire. “Wraybrook Park, near Honiton,” was his address. He returned to the hotel and found Herr Löffner immovable in his place, and still with a cigar. But he was deplorably hungry, and leapt to his feet the moment he saw Senhouse.
“Thank God for you,” he warmly said. “Come and dine.”
“I can’t dine, Löffner. You must hoard your thanksgiving. I’m going down to Devonshire.” The savant gazed at him.
“To Devonshire—without dinner! That is not possible, my friend. To begin, it is bad for you—secondly, it is late.”
“Oh,” said Senhouse, “I’m a night-bird, you know. I don’t want you to come with me—in fact, I’d rather you didn’t. You’ve got lots to do at Kew, and can meet me there. But I must be off in half an hour. I shall catch the 9.25.”
Herr Löffner looked at his watch, then at his friend’s dog, then at his friend. Smiles played about his face and eyes. “What mischief do you meditate? What dark work?” he said; and you could hear the enthusiasm gurgling beneath, like flood water in a drain. But Senhouse was unfathomable, and for once not smiling.
“It’s serious work I’m after. Life-and-death work, I believe. My trip to the Caucasus hangs on it—and all my trips to come.”
“Herr Je! Du lieber——!”
“I know. It’s a queer thing. Nothing seemed to hang upon anything this morning, and now everything upon one thing. It’s no good, my dear man, I can’t explain. Trust me, I’ll telegraph to you from Exeter and wait for you there.”