There was no answer to the letter, but, as Eric left his club the following night, he met Gaymer returning from dinner with the Poynters in Belgrave Square. They so narrowly avoided a collision that it was useless for either to pretend that he had not seen the other. Both stopped short and stood silent; then Eric said:
“Hullo!”
Gaymer half put out his hand, withdrew it and put it out again.
“Hullo!,” he answered with unwonted apparent cordiality. “You going my way?”
“I’m rather tired. I think I shall take the Tube to Dover Street,” said Eric, reflecting rapidly that Gaymer could not reach Buckingham Gate by that route without fetching a wide compass.
“Split the difference and walk with me as far as Lancaster House,” Gaymer suggested. “I got your letter. I’ll say at once that I accept the conditions. You’d probably prefer to have it in writing—”
“That’s not necessary, is it?,” Eric interrupted quickly and in embarrassment.
Gaymer chuckled malevolently. He had hitherto spoken seriously and with a touch of dignity, hiding any antagonism that he might feel under an easy but disconcerting friendliness. The dignity and restraint were shattered by the chuckle.
“You mean that, if I’m going to break my word,” he said, “I shall break it just the same whether it was in writing or not?”
“No, I meant that, if you gave me your word, I should accept it without any bonds or witnesses.”