"I'll make it three quarters. There
really isn't any hurry. Say an hour, if you like. I'll be sitting
down inside."
The metamorphosis in Andrew Slate was complete. With his closely trimmed
white hair, the dark growth gone from his chin, in a well-cut morning
coat and trousers, a grey tie and fashionable collar, his appearance was
entirely irreproachable. Wingate nodded his satisfaction as he approached
the table.
"Jolly well done, Andrew," he declared. "You certainly do pay for
dressing, my boy. Now drink that cocktail up and we'll talk business."
Andrew Slate's altered deportment would have delighted the author of
"Sartor Resartus." With his modish and correct clothes, his self-respect
seemed to have returned. He carried himself differently, there was a
confident ring in his tone. He studied the menu which Wingate passed him,
through a well-polished eyeglass, and one could well have believed that
he was a distinguished and frequent patron of the place.
"Well, what is it, Wingate?" he asked at last, when the business
of ordering luncheon was concluded. "I only hope it's something I
can tackle."
"You can tackle it all right," his companion assured him encouragingly.
"For a week or ten days you've nothing more to do than a little ordinary
detective business. If I decide to carry out a scheme which is forming in
my mind, it will be a more serious affair.
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