subscribing imperialist, like his friend, Honest John Driver.
"Oh, he's a friend of that great financier, is he?" I said.
"He is, indeed," said Gregson. "They are working that gorgeous plant Amalgamated Fertilizers."
He drank some wine with a thoughtful air, and went on: "But there is a darker side to the picture, alas! Our Albert Amsted is by way of being a gay dog. He is not always off with the old love before he is on with the new. At present he is riding hard for a breach of promise case; he is carrying on with an East Surbiton widow and also with a young lady, very much a young lady, of Stoneleigh Street, Vauxhall. Consequently, he is no longer the regular attendant at his snug East Surbiton home he used to be. He is no longer domesticated."
I was deeply shocked to hear this—the least one expects from a financier is domesticity; and I felt that Albert Amsted Pudleigh had established yet another claim on the stern offices of the philanthropists.
At about half-past four we finished our lunch. I bade good-by to Gregson, and walked up into Holborn to buy the materials for my portable lethal chamber. For the purpose of collecting butterflies, should it ever become my hobby, I bought
