Beaumanoir’s harassed brows cleared as he met Alec Forsyth’s honest gaze and he felt the grip of his honest hand. Their ways had lain apart for the last few years, but a very real friendship, begun in the Eton playing fields, had survived separation. Of all his acquaintances, Alec had been the only one to go down to Liverpool twelve months before to bid scapegrace Charles Hanbury farewell.
“I had a call to make, before going to Pattisons’ in Lincoln’s Inn,” said the Duke. And then with quick apprehension he added, pointing to the door he had just left: “Have you come from there? Have you business with Ziegler too?”
“Ziegler? Who’s Ziegler?” asked Forsyth, looking puzzled by his sudden confusion. “No, I haven’t been to those rooms, but to the suite beyond. A duty call on a certain Mrs. Talmage Eglinton, but, thank goodness, she wasn’t at home. Now about yourself, Charley. Fortune smiles again, eh?”
“It’s only a sickly grin at present,” Beaumanoir replied, dejectedly. “See here, Alec; I’ve got my bag on a cab outside. I landed at Southampton too early for lunch. Come
[39]
