Micky watched him silently; after a moment Ashton turned.
“Lord, man! what’s the matter? You look as cheerful as Doomsday.”
Micky was standing stiffly against the table.
“I saw you in the theatre to-night,” he began without preamble. “I was with Miss Shepstone, and she saw you, too––at least she believes it was you, and I am going to tell her that she was mistaken. How soon can you get out of town and back to Paris?”
Ashton stared; the colour had rushed to his face; after a moment his eyes fell.
“I don’t know what the devil you’re driving at,” he said irritably. “I suppose I can come to London without asking you first, can’t I? And, as for Lallie”––he grinned nervously––“well, you know as well as I do that that’s all been off for weeks.”
Micky stood immovable.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said flintily. “How soon can you get out of London?”
Ashton swore under his breath.