“A reporter from the Sun is in the strangers’ room. Mr. Stirling, and asks to see you,” said a servant.
“I cannot see him,” said Peter, quietly. “But say to him that I may possibly have something to tell him about eleven o’clock.”
The four men at the table exchanged glances.
“I can’t imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, Stirling,” laughed one of them a little nervously.
Peter smiled. “Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can’t imagine any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may some day.”
A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang a bell.
“What shall it be?” he asked.
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then one said. “Order for us. You’re host. Just what you like.”
Peter smiled. “Thomas,” he said, “bring us eight Apollinaris cocktails.”
The men all laughed, and Thomas said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?” in a bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never heard of that cocktail.