Harrington looked at the refreshment inquiringly. “Did I order this?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” Lambart answered, “but my late employer Lord St. Mervyn always said that when he was waiting like you are, sir, it steadied his nerves to have a little refreshment.”
“I should have liked the Marquis if I’d known him,” Michael Harrington observed when his thirst was quenched. “I think I could have paid him no prettier compliment than to have named a Rocksand colt after him, Lambart. The colt won at Deauville last week, by the way.”
“Yes, sir,” Lambart returned, “I took the liberty of putting a bit on him; I won, too.”
“Good,” said his employer, “I’m glad. He ought to have a good season in France. I like France for two things—racing and what they call the heure de l’aperitif. When I go to Rome I do as the Romans do, and I have the pleasantest recollections of my afternoons in France.”
He noticed that Lambart, bringing over to him a box of cigars, turned his head as though to listen. “I believe, sir,” said the butler, “that the car is coming up the drive.”
He hurried to the open French window and looked out. “Yes, sir,” he cried, “it is one of our cars and Mrs. Harrington is in it.”
Michael Harrington rose hastily to his feet. “Great Scott, my wife! The boat must have docked early.” He pointed to the whiskey and champagne. “Get rid of these; and not a word, Lambart, not a word.”
“Certainly not, sir,” Lambart answered; “I couldn’t make a mistake of that sort after being with the Marquis of St. Mervyn for seven years.”
He took up the tray quickly and carried it off as Nora Rutledge—the girl for whose sake poor Monty had passed hours of alternate misery and hope—came in to tell her host the news.