THE YELLOW DOVE
Hammersley opened the bag and sniffed at its contents.
“Good stuff, that. Virginia, Perique and a bit of Turkish. What?”
Byfield nodded and watched Hammersley as he poured out the tobacco, rolled the paper and lighted it at the candelabra, inhaling luxuriously.
“Thanks,” he sighed. “Jolly good of you,” and he pushed the pouch back to Byfield along the table.
“You must come to Scotland some day, old chap,” said the Honorable Cyril carelessly.
“Delighted. When the war is over,” returned Byfield quietly. “Not until the war is over.”
“Awf’ly glad to have you any time, you know—awf’ly glad.”
“In case of furlough—I’ll look you up.”
“Do,” said the Honorable Cyril.
Hammersley’s rather bovine gaze passed slowly around the room, and just over Lord Kipshaven’s head in the mirror over the mantel it met the dark gaze of John Rizzio. The fraction of a second it paused there and then he stretched his long legs and rose, stifling a yawn.
“Let’s go in—what?” he said to Byfield.
Byfield got up and at the same time there was a movement at the mantel.
“Don’t be too hard on the chap,” Rizzio was saying in an undertone to Kipshaven. “You’re singing the ‘Hassgesang.’ He’s harmless—I tell you—positively harmless.” And then as the others moved toward the door: “Come, Lady Heathcote won’t mind our tobacco.”
Hammersley led the way, with Byfield and Rizzio at his heels. Jacqueline Morley had been trying to
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