“Stupid of me,” confessed Harmon, grinning. “Carteret. Good old Roddy! Certainly. Then I’d better capture you—him, I mean, and take him to the nine o’clock train for Boulder Brook, in my taxi.”
“Right-o, old thing! Be here at eight-thirty. Cheery-o!” said his host Britishly.
Promptly at that hour, on the second morning thereafter, a taxicab swerved violently into the curbstone almost at the feet of the patient and vigilant Murphy, and stopped with an alarming scrunch of brakes. From its window emerged a heavy puff of smoke. From its door emerged Mr. Thomas Harmon, who rolled upon the pavement apparently strangling. Mr. Murphy rushed to his aid. When he was restored to his feet and his breath, and the taxi had ceased to imitate Fafnir the Dragon, a tall figure in an extremely English ulster (which had hastily emerged from the Remsen front door, rushed down ten steps, and leisurely climbed them again) was wrenching violently at the bell. For a time Mr. Murphy regarded him disdainfully, then crossed over, held brief colloquy, and returned.
“Hot chance he’s got of breaking in,” he observed to Mr. Harmon.
“What is he making all the fuss about?” inquired that gentleman as the visitor again applied himself forcefully to the bell.
“Wants to see Mr. Remsen. But the old bulldog of a butler won’t let him put his nose inside the door. Says his name is Carteret, and he’s come all the way from England to see him.”
“England? Not Roddy Carteret!” It was done almost as well as that accomplished actor, Mr. Jacob Remsen, could have done it. Harmon sprang across the street.
“Carteret! Roddy Carteret!” he called. “What on earth are you doing over here?” The bell-ringer adjusted a monocle and ambled down the steps to shake hands. “Well met, m’deah fellah! Perhaps you can tell me what’s amiss with this beastly house.”
“I’ll tell you,” proffered the obliging and innocent Mr. Murphy. He did so.
“Then I’ll just go back and jolly well camp there till somebody jolly well lets me in,” decided the caller.