"Mr. Morrison?" I inquired in my best assumed voice.
"That's me all right," said Tommy.
"My name's Nicholson," I said. "I am an artist. I was asked to look you up by a friend of yours—Delacour of Paris."
I had mentioned a man for whose work I knew Tommy entertained a profound respect.
"Oh, come in," he cried, swinging open the door and gripping my hand; "come in, old chap. Delighted to see you. The place is in a hell of a mess, but you won't mind that. I've only just got back from sailing."
He dragged me into the studio, which was in the same state of picturesque confusion as when I had last seen it, and pulling up a large easy-chair thrust me down into its capacious depths.
"I'm awfully glad I was in," he went on. "I wouldn't have missed you for the world. How's old Delacour? I haven't seen him for ages. I never get over to Paris these days."
"Delacour's all right," I answered—"at least, as far as I know."
Tommy walked across the room to a corner cupboard. "You'll have a drink, won't you?" he asked; "there's whisky and brandy, and Grand Marnier, and I've got a bottle of port somewhere if you'd care for a glass."
There was a short pause. Then in my natural voice I remarked quietly and distinctly: "You were always a drunken old blackguard, Tommy."