Lord Boyne, the great administrator, who had been wearily turning over the pages of an illustrated weekly chiefly filled with flamboyant photographs of obscure actresses, took his gold glasses from his nose and the black cigar from his lips, and addressed his companions.
“I’ve been considerably interested in your conversation,” said he, “and as you’ve been frank, I’ll be frank too. I knew Mrs. Deverill’s mother, Lady Carstairs, very well years ago, and of course Mrs. Deverill when she was a child. Deverill I came across once in Egypt—he had been sent on a diplomatic mission to Teheran. As for our being invited on such slight acquaintance, little Mrs. Deverill has the reputation of being the only really successful celebrity hunter in England. She inherited the faculty from her mother, who entertained the whole world. We’re sure to find archbishops, and eminent actors, and illustrious divorcées asked to meet us. That’s one thing. But why I, who loathe country house parties and children and Christmas as much as Biggleswade, am going down there to-day, I can no more explain than you can. It’s a devilish odd coincidence.”
The three men looked at one another. Suddenly McCurdie shivered and drew his fur coat around him.
“I’ll thank you,” said he, “to shut that window.”
“It’s shut,” said Boyne.
“It’s just uncanny,” said McCurdie, looking from one to the other.
“What?” asked Boyne.
“Nothing if you didn’t feel it.”
“There did seem to be a sudden draught,” said Professor Biggleswade. “But as both window and door are shut, it could only be imaginary.”
“It wasn’t imaginary,” muttered McCurdie.