“Will you excuse me?” said Pierce to Sir Donald, tearing open the envelope.
He glanced at the note.
“Is it to ask you to go somewhere to-night?” Sir Donald said.
“Yes, but—”
“I will go.”
“Please don’t. It is only from a friend who is just round the corner in Stratton Street. If you will not mind his joining us here I will send him a message.”
He said a few words to his man.
“That will be all right. Do come upstairs.”
“You are sure I am not in the way?”
“I hope you will not find my friend in the way; that’s all. He’s an odd fellow at the best of times, and to-night he’s got an attack of what he calls the blacks—his form of blues. But he’s very talented. Carey is his name—Rupert Carey. You don’t happen to know him?”