“Yes, perhaps,” replied Travers, becoming seriously disturbed by this most unwonted development of character in the hard-headed and practical Fair. “But what the deuce is the game, you know?”
“Nothing,” answered Fair, putting down the pistol and turning from the table as if about to turn from the gruesome subject as well. “I had a fancy that I wanted you to notice these little details. I may ask you to remember them some day. By the way, you are going to Drayton Hall tomorrow?”
“Yes,” quickly replied Travers, only too glad to follow some new lead. “Sir Nelson asked me at the club last night. Who is to be there? Drayton is no end of a bore, you know, when Lady Poynter has what she calls ‘the literary set’ down. The men are a lot of insufferable prigs, and the women—oh, hang it, you know what they are.”
“Yes,” drawled Fair, himself again; “if one could ever meet the women who write! But one can’t, you know—it is the women who think they write that one meets. But we are safe tomorrow. Poynter assured me that nobody with brains would be down—so we count upon a comfortable time. Anyhow, I shall be running back to town in the evening, and, before I forget it, I want you and Allyne to give me the night—here at the house. I have a bit of rather serious work on my hands.”
“I’m yours, of course,” answered Travers. “But, I say, old chap, let up on this melodrama, can’t you? Be a man and try to bear up bravely under your increased income of sixty thousand more a year. Now I have a jolly good right to chronic blue devils, for I never succeeded at anything in my life, as you know. But you—gad! it’s treason for you to do a blessed thing but chant pæans of victory—and pour libations on yourself.”
“Never fear,” laughed Fair, “I’m the happiest man alive. You have no idea of what I possess. Why, hang it, man,” he went on with an unpleasant ring in his voice that puzzled and alarmed Travers, “I tell you, I have things that would surprise you—in this very room. Ah, here’s the brandy and soda.”
Baxter entered and deposited the tray on the table, but, although he took an unconscionable long time to arrange the decanters and glasses, he could get no hint of the drift of the conversation, as neither of the gentlemen spoke until the absorbing process of “mixing” was over and Baxter gone.
“I forgot to tell you,” began Travers, with his glass in his hand, “that I saw that Cuban chap, Lopez, this morning, and he wants me to dine with him to meet another yellow gent from the land of cigars, who says that he knows you, or rather, Mrs. Fair. Can you imagine who he may be?”
“It is probably a man named Mendes, a very rich planter,” answered Fair, after a few moments, during which he was critically studying the rich amber color of his drink as he held his glass between his eye and the light. “I fancy it must be Mendes, for he was in London today—but he left very suddenly this afternoon. Have another drink.”
“Left, eh?” asked Travers, filling his glass. “Thank heaven, for then I sha’n’t have to meet him. I hate those Cubans. Always seem to have something up their sleeve—and to have forgot tubbing that morning.”