Men of Affairs Part 17

CHAPTER 8.

INTRODUCING A LADY.

It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with a Turkish towel and, after the fas.h.i.+on of all good men, singing l.u.s.tily in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he materialized through the wreaths of steam.

"h.e.l.lo, back again!"

Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him.

"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind."

"Fire away."

Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil.

"Scribble your signature on this bit of paper."

"I see. My writing. Here you are."

Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the bath--and without thinking--dashed off his own signature. When he had finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the result.

"No good?"

"'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't write."

"I won't."

Cranbourne glanced at the page again.

"This is your real name, I suppose."

Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded.

"There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business."

"My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know."

"I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."

"Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a gentleman and nothing else--never was taught how to earn a living.

That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now."

"I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father realised his ambition. Goodnight."

"Night-oh!"

At the door Cranbourne paused.

"I'm almost ashamed of having dragged you into this business," said he.

"Don't you fret, my dear fellar. I'm delighted. I've been spending that five thousand in imagination ever since I heard of it. Think I'll emigrate in the fine style."

"Hm!" he paused. "Altar! I shouldn't really tell you this, but you're likely to be kidnapped tonight."

"What?"

"I thought you might like to know."

"Thanks very much."

"That's all."

"Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful with my hands or a gun either for that matter."

"It would help us if you did nothing at all--except comply."

Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up.

"Oh, very well, if you say so."

"Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap."

"You bet."

Cranbourne went out and a moment later the front door slammed.

Then Richard began to laugh.

"Kidnapped, eh! What a game. Doran!" The last word rang out imperatively.

"Sir," came the reply.

"Have I got any clothes?"

"In the bedroom, sir."

"Righto." He put his feet into a pair of slippers, donned a bath gown and shuffled into the adjoining room. At the door he paused to survey the appointments.

"I think this is a nice bedroom of mine, don't you?"

Doran signified a.s.sent with a smile.

"Very nice flat altogether. What sort of taste have I in the matter of clothes?"

"Pretty good, sir. I've laid out a blue cheviot."