Farquhar smoked on stolidly. He did not feel greatly attracted towards his host. Lady Mary shot a somewhat contemptuous glance at her penitent parent, who was seeking to throw the blame on Greatorex.
“Pay no attention to him,” she whispered across the table. “The Foreign Office is not to blame. He got Guy transferred abroad in order to separate him from Isobel. I have told you.”
Farquhar understood and nodded. He had already come to the conclusion that Lord Saxham was a very poor and weak creature—not a good specimen of his order. How had he become possessed of such a daughter, so gentle, so high-minded? There must have been some virility on the female side of the family.
He drove back to his chambers in a rather exhilarated frame of mind. Lady Mary was very charming. He had quite got over that first feeling that he was to be exploited for the benefit of the Rossett family. Mary had put that all right, in her gentle, persuasive way. She had expressly laid emphasis on the fact that she, at any rate, was pleased to welcome him for himself.
He dismissed his taxi, and climbed up the steep stairs to his suite of rooms in one of the most cloistered courts of the Temple. To his surprise, the light in the hall was burning.
What had happened? He went into the dining-room, a blaze of electric light.
Stretched on the sofa, puffing at a long cigar, was Andres Moreno, awaiting his arrival.
“The devil!” cried Farquhar shortly, sharply, and decisively.
Moreno waved a genial hand.
“Not exactly, old man, but one of his ambassadors. I say, I suppose you can give me a shake-down.”