“Yes, Sir,” interrupted the page. “But 'e won't leave it, not unless he keeps the 'arf-crown.”
“For Heaven's sake!” protested the Second Secretary, “then let him keep the half-crown. When I say polo ponies, I don't mean——”
James, although alarmed at his own temerity, refused to accept the dismissal. “But, please, Sir,” he begged; “I think the 'arf-crown is for the Ambassador.”
The astonished diplomat gazed with open eyes.
“You think—WHAT!” he exclaimed.
James, upon the defensive, explained breathlessly.
“Because, Sir,” he stammered, “it was INSIDE the note when it was thrown out of the window.”
Ford had been sprawling in a soft leather chair in front of the open fire. With the privilege of an old school-fellow and college classmate, he had been jabbing the soft coal with his walking-stick, causing it to burst into tiny flames. His cigarette drooped from his lips, his hat was cocked over one eye; he was a picture of indifference, merging upon boredom. But at the words of the boy his attitude both of mind and body underwent an instant change. It was as though he were an actor, and the words “thrown from the window” were his cue. It was as though he were a dozing fox-terrier, and the voice of his master had whispered in his ear: “Sick'em!”
For a moment, with benign reproach, the Second Secretary regarded the unhappy page, and then addressed him with laborious sarcasm.
“James,” he said, “people do not communicate with ambassadors in notes wrapped around half-crowns and hurled from windows. That is the way one corresponds with an organ-grinder.” Ford sprang to his feet.