peculiarly transparent sort of ass of himself, he is usually too conscious of the fact to require outside comment. By the way, the Aunt has been enquiring about you."
"About me?" queried Beresford.
"Yes. I think I unduly alarmed her by an indiscreet reference to a possible inquest upon your remains. Perhaps one or two ill-advised references to the cheerless and unhygienic qualities of coroners' courts were responsible. What she will say when she learns that you have been cutting the ground from under my feet at Folkestone, I haven't the most remote idea."
"Don't be an ass."
"Richard," continued Drewitt, "I have a foreboding. Like the estimable Cassandra, I feel a perfect tenement-house of foreboding. With your romantic disposition, Lola Craven's fascinating personality and your high sense of honour and integrity, we have a situation that Sophocles would have welcomed with tears of artistic joy."
"You are talking a most awful lot of rot, Drew." Beresford was conscious of a surly note in his voice.
"How much money have you got?" Drewitt leaned forward slightly, the bantering note had disappeared from his voice.
Beresford looked across at him curiously.
"I've given up taking stock of my resources."
For fully a minute there was silence, broken at length by Drewitt.
