"Oh, darn it!" said Madame Eulalie. "I forgot I had an appointment. Send him in."
"May I wait?" breathed Hamilton Beamish devoutly.
"Please do. I shan't be long." She turned to the door. "Come in, Mr. Cabot."
Hamilton Beamish wheeled around. A long, stringy person was walking daintily into the room. He was richly, even superbly, dressed in the conventional costume of the popular clubman and pet of Society. He wore lavender gloves and a carnation in his buttonhole, and a vast expanse of snowy collar encircled a neck which suggested that he might be a throw-back to some giraffe ancestor. A pleasing feature of this neck was an Adam's apple that could have belonged to only one man of Hamilton Beamish's acquaintance.
"Garroway!" cried Hamilton Beamish. "What are you doing here? And what the devil does this masquerade mean?"
The policeman seemed taken aback. His face became as red as his wrists. But for the collar, which held him in a grip of iron, his jaw would no doubt have fallen.
"I didn't expect to find you here, Mr. Beamish," he said apologetically.
"I didn't expect to find you here, calling yourself De Courcy Bellville."
"Delancy Cabot, sir."
"Delancy Cabot, then."