In direct antithesis to this wolfish feeding were the manners of Oliver Laurence. He toyed with his victuals, cutting them into the littlest pieces and almost flirting with his glass of wine.
Ezra P. Hipps ate and drank, as he did everything else in life—thoroughly and with conviction. The meal finished he pushed back his chair, unlocked the door, tilted his head to indicate to the servants that they could get out, locked the door again and crossed to the mantelpiece.
"Cigar," he said.
Laurence provided one and offered a light. Hipps shook his head and sticking the cigar in his mouth he proceeded to eat it with a curious rotary motion.
"Now!" he said and it sounded like a blow upon a gong.
"Curtain up," said Richard and steeled himself for any eventuality.
"You're caught, Mr. Barraclough."
"But not caught out," came the instant reply.
"Ever handled a cheque for a million pounds?"
"I have not."