In a moment Peterson greeted him warmly, and said:
“Falconer, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Paget.”
The two men shook hands. Paget! Then Phillips was not the man’s real name, Geoffrey thought.
“I think we met in Northamptonshire—didn’t we?” asked the man who called himself Paget.
“Oh, you’ve met before—eh?” asked Peterson.
“Yes; in the hunting-field,” Falconer said vaguely, and then all three had drinks together, and Falconer and his friend were afterwards compelled to leave.
“Who is that man Paget?” Geoffrey asked as soon as they were in the taxi.
“Oh, quite a nice fellow. I met him one day in the train as I was coming back from Carnarvon. He seemed to know something about wireless, and he gave me his card. So we met once or twice afterwards. He has rooms in Half Moon Street.”
“And he’s fond of hunting,” Falconer said. “Have you ever seen him with a tall, dark, very good-looking girl?”
“A girl with a mole on her left cheek? Oh, yes. One afternoon about a week ago I called on him and found her having tea at his rooms. I didn’t catch her name. She was dressed in brown, and had a beautiful set of furs.”