The Honourable Felix made no response, nor would it have been heard had he done so; for just at that moment young Essington, whose eye had been caught by something in the paper, burst out into a loud guffaw.
“I say, this is rich. Listen here, you fellows! Lay you a tenner that the chap who wrote this was a Paddy Whack, for a finer bull never escaped from a Tipperary paddock:
“‘Lost: Somewhere between Portsmouth and London or some other spot on the way, a small black leather bag containing a death certificate and some other things of no value to anybody but the owner. Finder will be liberally rewarded if all contents are returned intact to
“‘D. J. O’M., 425 Savile Row, West.’
“There’s a beautiful example of English as she is advertised for you; and if—Hullo, Deland, old chap, what’s the matter with you?”
For Cleek had suddenly jumped up and, catching the Honourable Felix by the shoulder, was hurrying him out of the room.
“Just thought of something—that’s all. Got to make a run; be with you again before bedtime,” he answered evasively. But once on the other side of the door: “‘Write me down an ass,’” he quoted, turning to his host. “No, don’t ask any questions. Lend me your auto and your chauffeur. Call up both as quickly as possible. Wait up for me and keep your wife and Lady Essington and her son waiting up, too. I said to-morrow I would answer the riddle, did I not? Well, then, if I’m not the blindest bat that ever flew, I’ll give you that answer to-night.”
Then he turned round and raced upstairs for his hat and coat, and ten minutes later was pelting off London-ward as fast as a £1,000 Panhard could carry him.
It was close to one o’clock when he came back and walked into the drawing-room of the Priory, accompanied by a sedate and bespectacled gentleman of undoubted Celtic origin whom he introduced as “Doctor James O’Malley, ladies and gentlemen, M.D., Dublin.”