“That's the last you'll see of him,” said Philip.
“His actions are certainly peculiar,” gasped the millionaire. “He did not wait for us. He didn't even wait for his hat! I think, after all, I had better go to Tate Street.”
“Do so,” said Philip, “and save yourself three hundred thousand dollars, and from the laughter of two continents. You'll find me here at lunch. If I'm wrong, I'll pay you a hundred pounds.”
“You should come with me,” said Faust. “It is only fair to yourself.”
“I'll take your word for what you find in the studio,” said Philip. “I cannot go. This is my busy day.”
Without further words, the millionaire collected his hat and stick, and, in his turn, entered a taxi-cab and disappeared.
Philip returned to the Louis Quatorze chair and lit a cigarette. Save for the two elderly gentlemen on the sofa, the lounge was still empty, and his reflections were undisturbed. He shook his head sadly.
“Surely,” Philip thought, “the French chap was right who said words were given us to conceal our thoughts. What a strange world it would be if every one possessed my power. Deception would be quite futile and lying would become a lost art. I wonder,” he mused cynically, “is any one quite honest? Does any one speak as he thinks and think as he speaks?”
At once came a direct answer to his question. The two elderly gentlemen had risen and, before separating, had halted a few feet from him.
“I sincerely hope, Sir John,” said one of the two, “that you have no regrets. I hope you believe that I have advised you in the best interests of all?”