The Mystery Man smiled contentedly with a piece of meat poised gracefully on his fork, then he began humming the latest love-song which the barrel-organs had made popular, beating time with his fork, at the same time placing his hand upon his heart in true operatic style.
This proceeding was, however, interrupted by the entrance of the Hag bearing a telegram for me. On opening it I found it contained only the one word “Come,” signed by the initial “P.”
I tossed it across to my companion without comment, and as I did so was surprised to notice a strange, puzzled look upon his dark face.
He glanced at it, then handing it back to me, exclaimed—“Wonder what’s up at Kensington?”
“Something unusual, or Patterson wouldn’t have wired,” I said.
“You’ll go, of course?”
“Yes. I’ll just see what it looks like, and if there’s anything in it I’ll let you know.”
“Well, old dawdler,” he laughed, “if it’s a good thing, leave a bit of the latest intelligence for me to pick up for my early edition to-morrow. To-night I can’t disappoint Lily, you know. She’s a good girl, and never worries.”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I come back; then you can write up something in readiness for to-morrow. If it’s a mystery my people won’t touch it, you know.”
“Of course,” he said. “Your staff is only paid to look pleasant.”