‘Now, gentlemen, it’s past dinner time. We may have a journey in front of us. If you take my advice you’ll have something to eat.’
Lessingham shook his head.
‘I want nothing.’
‘Nor I,’ echoed Sydney.
I started up.
‘You must pardon my saying nonsense, but surely you of all men, Mr Lessingham, should be aware that you will not improve the situation by rendering yourself incapable of seeing it through. Come and dine.’
I haled them off with me, willy nilly, to the refreshment room. I dined,—after a fashion; Mr Lessingham swallowed with difficulty, a plate of soup; Sydney nibbled at a plate of the most unpromising looking ‘chicken and ham,’—he proved, indeed, more intractable than Lessingham, and was not to be persuaded to tackle anything easier of digestion.
I was just about to take cheese after chop when Bellingham came hastening in, in his hand an open telegram.
‘The birds have flown,’ he cried.
‘Flown!—How?’