“Understand?” said Jimmy.
“Oh, very well,” said Hargate sullenly. “But,” he burst out, “if I ever get a chance to get even with you——”
“You won’t,” said Jimmy. “Dismiss the rosy dream. Get even! You don’t know me! There’s not a flaw in my armour. I’m a sort of modern edition of the Stainless Knight. Tennyson drew Galahad from me. I move through life with almost a sickening absence of sin. But hush! We are observed—at least, we shall be in another minute—somebody is coming down the passage. You do understand, don’t you? Sprained wrist is the watchword.”
The handle turned. It was Lord Dreever, back again from his interview.
“Halloa, Dreever!” said Jimmy. “We’ve missed you. Hargate has been doing his best to amuse me with acrobatic tricks. But you’re too reckless, Hargate, old man. Mark my words, one of these days you’ll be spraining your wrist. You should be more careful. What, going? Good night. Pleasant fellow, Hargate,” he added, as the footsteps retreated down the passage. “Well, my lad, what’s the matter with you? You look depressed.”
Lord Dreever flung himself on to the lounge and groaned hollowly.
“Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!” he observed.
His glassy eye met Jimmy’s and wandered away again.
“What on earth’s the matter?” demanded Jimmy. “You go out of here carolling like a song-bird, and you come back moaning like a lost soul. What’s happened?”
“Give me a brandy and soda, Pitt, old man, there’s a good chap. I’m in a fearful hole.”