"Any throat would be sore," I replied, "that had Mrs. Messington-Smith talking through it. I wonder whether Charles is using those tickets."
"You might ring up and see."
To step lightly to the telephone, ask for Charles's number, get the wrong one, ask again, find that he had gone to his office, ring him up there and get through to him, was the work of scarcely fifteen minutes. "Charles," I said, "are you using those two stalls of mine to-day?"
"Awfully sorry," he replied, "but I can't go myself. I gave them away yesterday evening."
"Wurzel!" I said. "Who to?"
"To whom," he corrected gently. "To a dull man I met in the City named Messington-Smith."
"Named what?" I shrieked.
"Messington-Smith. M for Mpret, E for Eiderdown——"
"Where does he live?"
"21, Morpheus Avenue."