"Permit me, sir," he said indulgently.
I took it and read the following inscription:
RT. HON. SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C. The Reform Club.
I remembered him at once. He was a fairly well known politician—an old-fashioned member of the Liberal Party, with whose name I had been more or less acquainted all my life. I had never actually met him in the old days, but I had seen one or two photographs and caricatures of him, and this no doubt explained my vague recollection of his features.
For just a moment I remained silent, struggling against a strong impulse to laugh. There was something delightfully humorous in the thought of my sitting in a first-class carriage exchanging cheerful confidences with a distinguished politician, while Scotland Yard and the Home Office were racking their brains over my disappearance. It seemed such a pity I couldn't hand him back a card of my own just for the fun of watching his face while he read it.
MR. NEIL LYNDON Late of His Majesty's Prison, Princetown.
Collecting myself with an effort, I covered my apparent confusion with a slight bow.
"It was very stupid of me not to have recognized you from your pictures," I said.
This compliment evidently pleased the old boy, for he beamed at me in the most gracious fashion.
"You see now, sir," he said, "why it would be quite impossible for me to discuss the matter in question."