“No matter,” said the second, clutching at the bit of pasteboard. “Trust me to discover him. I’ll be back with his answer before you’ve smoked out that cigar.”
With this promise, Mr Lucas left the room.
As Mr Swinton sat smoking the cigar, and reflecting upon it, there was an expression upon his face that no man save himself could have interpreted. It was a sardonic smile worthy of Machiavelli.
The cigar was about half burned out, when Mr Lucas was heard hurrying back along the corridor.
In an instant after he burst into the room, his face showing him to be the bearer of some strange intelligence.
“Well?” inquired Swinton, in a tone of affected coolness. “What says our fellaw?”
“What says he? Nothing.”
“He has pwomised to send the answer by a fwend, I pwesume?”
“He has promised me nothing: for the simple reason that I haven’t seen him!”
“Haven’t seen him?”