The other nodded.
"What's the trouble now?"
It was eleven o’clock, and from the library one could hear the sound of carriages and cabs passing along South Audley Street. In the home there was complete silence.
Reggie shook his head.
"It's not a trouble of mine this time, not directly. But it's the most awful thing that's ever happened. That's why I've come to see you."
Harding smiled. His friends always came to him in time of trouble. There was something in the man's vigorous personality that invited sympathy; his vast reputation for acumen and knowledge of human life rendered him an invaluable adviser in moments of difficulty or danger.
He went back to his chair and lit a cigarette, waiting for his friend to speak.
The first words that came from Reggie's lips were:
"Clifford Oakleigh is dead."
"Dead!" cried Harding, aghast at the news that his best friend at Eton and Oxford, and indeed in the world, had died. Horrified, he pressed for particulars.
"When did he die? How do you know?"
"I have just come from his house."
"From Harley Street?"
"He doesn't use that as a house."
"I know. He lives at Claridge's." The K.C. corrected himself.
