"I wouldn't insult your intelligence with such a story," I answered. "It was infinitely more Raneyesque."
"Well, where is he and what's he doing?"
"Where did he say he was going? What did he say he would do?" I asked in turn. "My dear Jim, Raney's one of those people whose dreams come true. He told us he was going to Mexico, and he's gone to Mexico; he told us he was going to make money, and I gather he's making the devil of a lot."
"When's he coming home?" Loring asked.
I was about to admit ignorance when an old recollection stirred in my brain and I completed the history.
"He told me he would dine with me in this room on the first of May next year. He will dine—at that time—in this place."
Loring helped himself to plovers' eggs and began slowly to remove the shells.
"The little man's born out of time, you know," he said, with a laugh. "He belongs to the spacious days of Elizabeth. I'm glad he's in luck. God knows, if ever a man deserved it, if ever there was poetic justice for real pluck ..." he left the sentence eloquently unfinished. "Drive ahead, George."
"In time," I said, "and at a price."