Page:The Secret of Chimneys - 1987.djvu/34



EORGE Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a scuffling sound.

Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large arm-chair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.

A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.

“Richardson sent up that report yet?”

“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”

“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if you can dine with him at the Savoy tomorrow.”

“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she can ring up and accept.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.

“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs. Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”

George Lomax frowned.