“Come to the point, curse you, and spare me all this rigmarole.”
“To come to the point, my lord, Mr Smeaton requests your attendance at Scotland Yard, where he proposes to give himself the pleasure of a short conversation with you.”
The hard, angry eyes were now sullen and overcast, but they were no longer defiant.
“Suppose I tell you and your precious Mr Smeaton to go to the devil! What then?”
“I don’t think either of us will hasten our journey in that direction on account of your lordship’s intervention,” replied Johnson with ready humour.
He paused a moment, and then added with a gravity that could not be mistaken: “The arm of the law is very long, and can reach a great nobleman like yourself. Take my advice. Lord Wrenwyck. Let me convey you in a taxi to Scotland Yard, to interview my chief. Come voluntarily while you can,” he paused and added in significant terms: “Believe me, you won’t have the option after to-day.”
Cursing and growling, the crippled peer stood up, and announced his readiness to accompany this imperturbable young man. A few minutes later, he and Smeaton were face to face.
On the evening of that day, Sheila and Wingate dined together at a small restaurant far removed from the haunts of the fashionable world.
Thanks to the strange and unexampled circumstances, their courtship had been conducted on very unconventional lines. But to-night an unobtrusive maiden aunt of Wingate’s played propriety.