“God, but you’ve given me an idea. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, as you’re late for dinner. I’ll damn well lend you a fiver.”
“But, Gerald——”
“You talk too much,” Gerald stammered. “I’d like to do you a bit of good. And I’ve still got to thank you for chloroforming me and lugging me off to that Home for Drunks, thanks very much. Now, am I going to lend you a fiver or am I going to make such a rough-house just here that all the police in London will come and arrest you for soliciting? I’ll scream if you don’t touch me!”
I was in a hurry. I had to take that fiver. I have that fiver still.
“I’ll keep it for you,” I said. “Damn you.”
“Yes, you keep it for me,” said Gerald thoughtfully. “Nice, fivers are ...” and then, savagely muttering “Oh, hell!” he strode abruptly away down the slope of East Chapel Street, which leads into Shepherd’s Market. Drunk or sober, you simply couldn’t tell. You never knew that man was drunk until he was speechless. I was hurrying away when his voice held me—and a very boyish voice Gerald had, like a prefect’s at school.
“I say, seen that sister of mine again?... You haven’t?” He seemed to reflect profoundly. “I say, if ever you do, give her my love. What? I say, don’t forget....”
“I won’t forget,” I called back. “Good-night, Gerald.” But he had turned away, and the last I saw of him he was putting his shoulder against the saloon-door of The Leather Butler. I plunged across the road to Chesterfield Street, glad of the message I would certainly give to Gerald’s sister. Maybe to-night, somehow. A furious conference of livid pink and purple monsters hung over Seamore Place, where the sun was sinking into Kensington Gardens.
II
“There was a cocktail for you,” said Hilary gloomily, “but I drank it, in case it grew warm.” I thanked him politely for the idea. “It wasn’t an idea, really,” said Hilary gloomily. “It was an impulse.”