Farquhar looked at him critically. “You’re a bit of an ass to-night, aren’t you?”
“Not at all, most noble Festus. Never was I saner than I am at the present hour. Well, perhaps just at the moment I am suffering a little from swollen head. I, the poor Fleet Street journalist—you remember, Farquhar, how they used to despise me in the early days—have outwitted the keenest brains of the anarchists. I have made abortive their great coup.”
“I know,” said Farquhar generously. “My hearty congratulations, old man. But still, you have not come all this way to tell me that. You have something behind.”
Moreno’s manner changed at once. He sat down in an easy chair and became the solemn and grave personage who had important interests at stake.
“You remember an interview in these chambers a little time ago, when you gave me a certain promise?”
Farquhar remembered the incident well.
“Yes, I gave you a certain promise. You have come to remind me of it?”
“Are you overwhelmed with briefs?”
“I cannot exactly say I am overwhelmed with them, but I have enough to keep me going.”
“I see,” said Moreno quietly. He had cast aside his gay and chaffing mood; he was quite serious. “Can you depute those to somebody?”