'What do you mean?'
'Fact,' said his lordship, nodding. 'Mind you, I don't know for
certain. As the girl says in the song, I don't know, but I guess.
What I mean to say is, they seemed jolly friendly, and all that;
calling each other by their first names, and so on.'
'Who--?'
'Pitt,' said his lordship. He was leaning back, blowing a smoke-ring
at the moment, so he did not see the look on the other's face and
the sudden grip of the fingers on the arms of the chair. He went on
with some enthusiasm.
'Jimmy Pitt!' he said. 'Now, there's a feller! Full of oats to the
brim, and fairly bursting with go and energy. A girl wouldn't have a
dull moment with a chap like that. You know,' he proceeded
confidently, 'there's a lot in this idea of affinities. Take my word
for it, dear old--sir. There's a girl up in London, for instance.
Now, she and I hit it off most amazingly. There's hardly a thing we
don't think alike about. For instance, 'The Merry Widow' didn't make
a bit of a hit with her. Nor did it with me. Yet, look at the
millions of people who raved about it. And neither of us likes
oysters. We're affinities--that's why. You see the same sort of
thing all over the place. It's a jolly queer business. Sometimes,
makes me believe in re-in-what's-it's-name. You know what I mean.
All that in the poem, you know. How does it go? 'When you were a
tiddley-om-pom, and I was a thingummajig.' Dashed brainy bit of
work. I was reading it only the other day. Well, what I mean to say
is, it's my belief that Jimmy Pitt and Miss McEachern are by way of
being something in that line. Doesn't it strike you that they are
just the sort to get on together? You can see it with half an eye.
You can't help liking a feller like Jimmy Pitt. He's a sport! I wish
I could tell you some of the things he's done, but I can't, for
reasons. But you can take it from me, he's a sport. You ought to
cultivate him. You'd like him ... Oh, dash it, there's the music. I
must be off. Got to dance this one.'
He rose from his chair, and dropped his cigarette into the ash-tray.
'So long,' he said, with a friendly nod. 'Wish I could stop, but
it's no go. That's the last let-up I shall have to-night.'
He went out, leaving Mr. McEachern a prey to many and varied
emotions.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE LAST ROUND
He had only been gone a few minutes when Mr. McEachern's meditations
were again interrupted. This time, the visitor was a stranger to
him, a dark-faced, clean-shaven man. He did not wear evening
clothes, so could not be one of the guests; and Mr. McEachern could
not place him immediately. Then, he remembered. He had seen him in
Sir Thomas Blunt's dressing-room. This was Sir Thomas's valet.
'Might I have a word with you, sir?'
'What is it?' asked McEachern, staring heavily. His mind had not
recovered from the effect of Lord Dreever's philosophical remarks.
There was something of a cloud on his brain. To judge from his
lordship's words, things had been happening behind his back; and the
