"I have seen no statistics on the subject," he admitted. "In this particular instance you think there is not the slightest danger?"
"Of finding in old Sid a modern Launcelot?" Fenton turned his friend about till both of them faced down the length of the room. "Well," he added, "to be sure——"
Grenville's quick glance had sped to the massive mirror, ten feet away, where both himself and Fenton were reflected from heels to crown. He comprehended in a glance the ill-clothed, thin, ungainly figure he presented: his big hands hanging loosely down, his face too ruggedly modeled, too sallow for attractiveness, his hair too rebellious for order.
A Launcelot indeed! The irony of the situation struck home to his sense of humor.
"Have a look," continued Fenton, his nervous glance indifferent to his own athletic fitness, the perfect grooming of his person, the grace and elegance of his tailoring. "Do you discern anything of the disloyal ambassador in that hard-worked friend and comrade of my happiest years?" His eyes gleamed irresistibly. "You see, old chap, you have trusted an invention of perhaps incalculable worth to my honor, and must leave both your fame and possible fortune in my keeping while you are long away."
"Yes, but——"
"I know, exactly. This is the sort of thing you and I have always done by one another. I had no thought of refusing your trust in me, and so—I have booked your passage for Wednesday."
He turned again to the mantel and began to fill his pipe.
Grenville pivoted slowly and rubbed the corner of his jaw.
"You have—booked my passage—for Wednesday?"