“Slightly,” was Geoffrey’s reply.
“H’m!” grunted the other. “A pretty cute crowd she’s in with.”
“How?” inquired Falconer.
“Oh—well. That old chap she’s with is old Daddy Whittaker—a friend of a fellow named Farrer. The whole crowd are international crooks, so be careful if you happen to know them.”
Geoffrey was surprised at this. But, as usual, he kept his own counsel. It seemed that his old school chum, Jack, had got mixed up with a very queer set. But in the West End there are queer sets on every hand, the dancing and drug-taking degenerates of both sexes who live upon their wits, and live very well, too. In certain circles within a mile of Piccadilly Circus, thieves and blackmailing vampires hobnob with young and pretty women of title, while innocent persons of both sexes fall into the vortex of vice and gaiety.
Presently Geoffrey asked, glancing across at Beryl:
“What do you really know about her? She’s rather fond of a great pal of mine.”
“Then I pity your pal, my dear Falconer,” was the elderly man’s reply. Franks was a member of Wells’ and the Bachelors’, and he moved in a very fast, go-ahead set.
“Why?” asked the young radio-engineer.
“Because of the past record of the crowd of which she is the decoy-duck. That’s all,” was his friend’s reply. “Daddy Whittaker, who is sitting yonder with her, is an old gaol-bird who still directs the nefarious operations of a dozen men and women. And woe betide anyone who falls into that girl’s net.”