“You must have heard of Henry Hartsilver,” he added. “You won’t find a list of contributors to any public war charity in which his name doesn’t appear—mind, I emphasize the public. Mrs. Hartsilver is his wife, a charming woman.”
“Oh, that bounder,” the first speaker observed. “Yes, I know all about him; one of our profiteers!”
“Exactly, and a quite impossible person in addition. Which way are you going?”
The three progressed slowly, owing to Preston’s limp, along the pavement, in the direction of Piccadilly. Preston hardly spoke. He was almost morose. The reason was that La Planta’s personality repelled him. Why it repelled him he could not explain. It was one of those natural repulsions which all of us have experienced regarding certain persons, and that we are at a loss to account for.
“Where are you both lunching?” La Planta asked as they approached Piccadilly.
“Nowhere in particular,” Preston’s companion, whose name was Blenkiron, replied.
“Well, why not lunch with me at the Ritz, and I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Hartsilver and her friend. They have promised to meet me there at one o’clock. It is about the only place where one can get anything decent to eat. You will find both ladies charming.”
It was then noon, and La Planta, saying that he had an appointment at his club, left them after arranging that they should all meet at the Ritz at one.
“I am not attracted by the fellow,” Captain Preston remarked some moments later. “I would sooner have lunched with you alone, George. Who and what is he?”
Blenkiron shrugged his shoulders.