“I should like to be in at the death,” I said eagerly.
“That is well enough,” said he, “so long as it is his death. You must bring your pistol, and don’t be afraid to use it.”
“And how shall I know when I am wanted?” I asked.
“You had better go to the studio to-morrow morning,” he replied. “I will send a note by Polton giving you particulars of the time when we shall call for you. And now we may as well help Polton to prepare for our other visitors; and I think, Gray, we will say as little as possible about this morning’s proceedings or those of to-morrow. Explanations will come better after the event.”
With this, we went down to the dining-room, where we found Polton sedately laying the table, having just got rid of the two ladies. We made a show of assisting him, and I ventured to inquire:
“Who is doing the cooking to-day, Polton? Or is it to be a cold lunch?”
He looked at me almost reproachfully as he replied:
“It is to be a hot lunch, and I am doing the cooking, of course.”
“But,” I protested, “you have been up to your eyes in other affairs all the morning.”
He regarded me with a patronizing crinkle. “You can do a good deal,” said he, “with one or two casseroles, a hay-box, and a four-story cooker on a gas stove. Things don’t cook any better for your standing and staring at them.”