“I give it to you for yourself, my good woman,” said he, priding himself on his murderous intent. “I’ll get lunch elsewhere.”
He back to his club, for the first time for many days. And this marked his reappearance in the great world.
He was halfway through his meal when a man, passing down the room from pay-desk to door, caught sight of him and approached with extended hand.
“My dear Quixtus. How good it is to see you again.”
He was a bald, pink-faced little man, wearing great round gold spectacles that seemed to be fitted on to his smiles. Kindliness and the gladness of life emanated from him, as perfume does from a jar of attar of roses. His name was Wonnacott, and he was a member of the council of the Anthropological Society. Quixtus, who had known him for years, scanned his glad cherubic face, and set him down as a false-hearted scoundrel. With this mental reservation he greeted him cordially enough.
“We want you badly,” said Wonnacott. “Things aren’t all they should be at the Society.”
“The monkey’s tail peeping out between their coat tails?” Quixtus asked eagerly.
“No. No. It’s only Griffiths.” Griffiths was the Vice-President. “He knows his subject as well as anybody, but he’s a perfect fool in the chair. We want you back.”
“Very good of you to say so,” replied Quixtus, “but I’m thinking of resigning from the Society altogether, giving up the study of anthropology and presenting my collection to a criminal lunatic asylum.”
Wonnacott, laughing, drew a chair from the vacant table next to Quixtus’s and sat down.