Next minute Mr Donovan appeared, jovial and hearty, his waistcoat of many colours expanded to its utmost limit. He stopped dead and turned a sickly light purple hue when he caught sight of Darwen. He pulled himself together in an instant, however, and advanced with outstretched hand. "How do you do? I thought it was Mr Carstairs." Surprise and apprehension were still in his eyes.
Darwen took him by the hand and smiled into his face, his delightful, winning smile. "What are you going to have, Mr Donovan? Whisky? Have a brandy, you don't seem quite up to the mark. Sit down, my dear chap." He pushed him into a chair facing them. "That's better; you were surprised to see me, Mr Donovan?"
"Pleased, Mr Darwen; I'm always pleased to see a friend."
"That's like you, Mr Donovan. Here's your health, your very good health, and may you live a very long time and be very happy."
"Same to you, Mr Darwen, and you, Mr Carstairs."
Carstairs raised his glass without a word.
Darwen carefully wiped his small, neat moustache with a snowy white pocket handkerchief. "I had a most pleasant week-end, but—" he leaned confidentially forward across the little round table—"Now, don't be alarmed, Carstairs—it was marred by a somewhat unpleasant incident." He paused and looked at Mr Donovan in silence for about half a minute. Carstairs watched them both, calmly observant. Darwen took another drink. Mr Donovan seemed in painful suspense.
"Ye're not hurt, are ye?" he blurted out at length.
"Me! Mr Donovan? Oh no, not a scratch. But they found a poor devil under my window, your window, Carstairs."
"Get on wid yer story, man! What was the matter with him?"