“Pitt, old man——”
“Halloa!” said Jimmy, coming out of his thoughts with a start. “You still here? By the way”—he eyed Lord Dreever curiously—“I never thought of asking before—what on earth are you doing here? Why were you behind the curtain? Were you playing hide and seek?”
His lordship was not one of those who invent circumstantial stories easily on the spur of the moment. He searched rapidly for something that would pass muster, then abandoned the hopeless struggle. After all, why not be frank? He still believed Jimmy to be of the class of the hero of Love, the Cracksman. There would be no harm in confiding in him. He was a good fellow, a kindred soul, and would sympathise.
“It’s like this,” he said. And, having prefaced his narrative with the sound remark that he had been a bit of an ass, he gave Jimmy a summary of recent events.
“What!” said Jimmy. “You taught Hargate piquet? Why, my dear man, he was playing piquet like a professor when you were in short frocks. He’s a wonder at it.”
His lordship stared.
“How’s that?” he said. “You don’t know him, do you?”
“I met him in New York at the Strollers’ Club. A pal of mine, an actor—this fellow Mifflin I mentioned just now—put him up as a guest. He coined money at piquet. And there were some pretty useful players in the place, too. I don’t wonder you found him a promising pupil.”
“Then—then—why, dash it! then he’s a bally sharper?”
“You’re a genius at crisp description,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got him summed up to rights first shot.”