"It shall be gratified," said Gray. "What time shall I show up?"
"One o'clock. Suit you all right?"
"Excellently."
"That'll do, then. If you get there first order yourself a cocktail."
The speaker rang off, and, replacing the receiver, Gray glanced at his watch.
It was a few minutes past twelve, and, being the day on which he was off duty, there was nothing to prevent him leaving the hospital as soon as he pleased. The prospect of a two-mile walk before lunch distinctly appealed to him, so, remounting the stairs to his small bedroom at the top of the building, he proceeded to change out of his white surgeon's kit into something a little more in harmony with the best traditions of a fashionable restaurant.
At exactly five minutes to one he passed through the revolving glass door of the Savoy and entered the already crowded lounge. Before he had time to glance round, a man, who had been sitting in the farther corner, rose to his feet and came forward to meet him.
No one, not even a newspaper reporter, would have called Mark Ashton handsome. In spite of his roughly cut features, his untidy hair, his badly fitting frock coat, and his large gold-rimmed spectacles there was, however, such a genuine and friendly air about his whole appearance that anybody except a fool would have been attracted by him at once. Somehow or other he reminded one of a large, shaggy, good-tempered dog.
He came up to Gray and shook him heartily by the hand.
"This is splendid, Colin," he said. "I'm awfully glad you were able to manage it."