13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

"Coincidence is a marvellous thing," said the Colonel. "I remember when I was in Allahabad with the West Notting­hams, they had a quartermaster whose wife's name was Ellen. As a matter of fact, he wasn't really our quartermaster—we borrowed him from the Southwest Kents. Rotten regiment, the Southwest Kents. Old General Plushbottom was with them before he was thrown out of the service. His name wasn't really Plushbottom, but we called him Old General Plushbot­tom. The whole thing was a frightful scandal. He had a fight with a subaltern on the parade-ground at Poona—as a matter of fact, it was almost on the very spot where Reggie Carfew dropped dead of heart failure the day after his wife ran away with a bank clerk. And the extraordinary thing was that her name was Ellen too."

"Extraordinary," agreed the young man.

"Extraordinary!" concurred Mr. Immelbern, and trod vi­ciously on Uppingdon's toe under the table.

"That was a marvellous trip we had on the Bremen—I mean to Biarritz—wasn't it?" said the Colonel, wincing.

Simon Templar smiled.

"We had some good parties, didn't we?"

"By Gad! And the casino!"

"The Heliopolis!"

"The races!" said the Colonel, seizing his cue almost too smartly, and moving his feet quickly out of range of Mr. Im­melbern's heavy heel.

Mr. Immelbern gave an elaborate start. He pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it accusingly.

"By the way, Sir George," he interrupted with a faintly con­spiratorial air. "I don't want to put you out at all, but it's get­ting a bit late."

"Late?" repeated the Colonel, frowning at him.

"You know," said Mr. Immelbern mysteriously.

"Oh," said the Colonel, grasping the point.

Mr. Immelbern turned to Simon.

"I'm really not being rude, Mr. Templar," he explained, "but Sir George has important business to attend to this afternoon, and I had to remind him about it. Really, Sir George, don't think I'm butting in, but it goes at two o'clock, and if we're going to get any lunch——"

"But that's outrageous!" protested the Colonel indignantly. "I've only just brought Mr. Templar over to our table, and you're suggesting that I should rush off and leave him!"

"Please don't bother about me," said Simon hastily. "If you have business to do——"

"My dear chap, I insist on bothering. The whole idea is absurd. I've put far too great a strain on your good nature already. This is preposterous. You must certainly join us in another drink. And in lunch. It's the very least I can do."

Mr. Immelbern did not look happy. He gave the impression of a man torn between politeness and frantic necessity, frustrated by having to talk in riddles, and perhaps pardonably exasperated by the obtuseness of his companion.

"But really, Sir George——"

"That's enough," said the Colonel, raising his hand. "I refuse to listen to anything more. Mr. Templar is an old friend of mine, and my guarantee should be good enough for you. And as far as you are concerned, my dear chap," he added, turning to Simon, "if you are not already engaged for lunch, I won't hear any other excuse."

Simon shrugged.

"It's very good of you. But if I'm in the way——"

"That," said the Colonel pontifically, "will do." He con­sulted his watch, drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table for a moment, and said: "The very thing! We'll go right along to my rooms, and I'll have some lunch served there. Then Mr. Immelbern and I can do our business as well without being rushed about."

"But Sir George!" said Immelbern imploringly. "Won't you listen to reason ? Look here, can I speak to you alone for a minute? Mr. Templar will excuse us."

He grabbed the spluttering Colonel by the arm and dragged him away almost by main force. They retreated to the other end of the lounge.

"We'll get him," said the Colonel, gesticulating furiously.

"I know," said Mr. Immelbern, beating his fist on the palm of his hand. "That is, if you don't scare him off with that imitation of a colonel. That stuff's so old-fashioned it makes me want to cry. Have you found out who he is?"

"No. I don't even recognise his name."

"Probably he's mistaken you for somebody else," said Mr. Immelbern, appearing to sulk.

The Colonel turned away from him and marched back to the table, with Mr. Immelbern following him glumly.

"Well, that's settled, by Gad," he said breezily. "If you've finished your drink, my dear fellow, we'll get along at once."

They went in a taxi to the Colonel's apartment, a small suite at the lower end of Clarges Street. Uppingdon burbled on with engaging geniality, but Mr. Immelbern kept his mouth tightly closed and wore the look of a man suffering from toothache.

"How about some caviar sandwiches and a bottle of wine ?" suggested the Colonel. "I can fix those up myself. Or if you'd prefer something more substantial, I can easily get it sent in."

"Caviar sandwiches will do for me," murmured Simon ac­commodatingly.