Mr. Fungst turned to his friend all frankness.
"All I wish is that we should have the pair—just you and I."
Mr. Brooke retained his grasp upon his friend's shoulder, nor did he remove his inquisitorial glance from his friend's frank features. "Yes, just you"—with the fingers of his disengaged hand Mr. Brooke tapped himself on the chest—"and I."
III.—THE TWO.
"My friend, could you tell me just one thing?"
Ivor Dacre glanced down at the speaker. He was a little rotund fellow. He spoke with a strong foreign accent. On his features there was the impress of the German Jew, and not by any means of the highest type of German Jew. He looked oddly out of place in the midst of that gorgeous assemblage, built rather for the purlieus of Houndsditch than for the Marquis of Clonkilty's ballroom. Mr. Dacre could scarcely believe that the profusely-perspiring little man addressed himself to him, but Mr. Fungst removed all misapprehension on that score by twitching Mr. Dacre by the lapel of his coat.
He repeated his inquiry.
"My friend, could you tell me just one thing?"
"If it is in my power."
"Could you tell me which is the Duchess of Datchet."
"The Duchess of Datchet?"
