'Look here, Mr. FitzHoward, can't you arrange an interview for me with Mr. Babbacombe?'
'I told you that if you're here to-morrow night I'll try to manage an introduction. So I will. I can't do more than that.'
'But I don't want to be here to-morrow night; at least, not in here. Can't I see him somewhere else?'
'Does he know you?'
'That is more than I can tell you.'
'Perhaps he won't want to see you if he knows who you are.'
There was a twinkle in the speaker's eye. I realised the truth of his words. It was extremely probable, if it was Twickenham, and he had an inkling of who I was, that he would decline the pleasure of an interview. 'You see Mr. Babbacombe won't be altogether himself; after such an experience as he has had it's not to be expected. For reasons of health, if for no other, he won't be disposed to run the risk of more physical strain than he can possibly help.'
I understood the innuendo--or thought I did. If I wished to see and speak to him, I should have to be present when he returned, in his agile associate's phrase, 'from out of the tomb.' Otherwise, before I knew it, he might vanish for another period of fifteen years.
I found, at home, that something like a heated discussion was taking place. Edith and Reggie were both with Violet. What Lady Desmond would have thought of the proceedings is more than I can say. They all began at me at once.
'Douglas, what did you mean by saying last night----'