“Yes, but we don’t want to be here all night, you know,” laughed the pimply-faced man. “You may as well draw it now, and hand it over to us when he comes in.”
“How long is he likely to be?”
“How can we tell? He’s a bit gone on her.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh! a little girl my friend Reckitt here knows,” interrupted the younger man. “Rather pretty. Reckitt is a fair judge of good looks. Have a cigarette?” and the man offered me a cigarette, which, out of common courtesy, I was bound to take from his gold case.
I sat back in my chair and lit up, and as I did so my ears caught the faint sound of a receding motor-car.
“Aren’t you going to draw the cheque?” asked the man with the pimply face. “Marlowe said you would settle at once; Charles Reckitt is my name. Make it out to me.”
“And so I will, as soon as he arrives,” I replied.
“Why not now? We’ll give you a receipt.”