Look to the Lady Read Free

violently.
    Three objects fell out upon the table; two pound notes and an engraved correspondence card. He stared at the card in stupefaction:
    Mr Albert Campion
    At Home
    â€“ and underneath, in the now familiar square handwriting:
    Any evening after twelve.
    Improving Conversation.
    Beer, Light Wines, and Little Pink Cakes.
    Do come.
    The address was engraved:
    17, Bottle Street, W1
    (Entrance on left by Police Station).
    Scribbled on the back were the words: ‘Please forgive crude temporary loan. Come along as soon as you can. It’s urgent. Take care. A.C.’
    Val Gyrth turned the card over and over.
    The whole episode was becoming fantastic. There was a faintly nonsensical, Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass air about it all, and it did just cross his mind that he might have been involved in a street accident and the adventure be the result of a merciful anaesthetic.
    He was still examining the extraordinary message when the gloomy but also slightly fantastic Mr Lugg appeared with what was evidently his personal idea of a banquet. Gyrth ate what was set before him with a growing sense of gratitude and reality. When he had finished he looked up at the man who was still standing beside him.
    â€˜I say,’ he said, ‘have you ever heard of a Mr Albert Campion?’
    The man’s small eyes regarded him solemnly. ‘Sounds familiar,’ he said. ‘I can’t say as I place ’im, though.’ There was a stubborn blankness in his face which told the boy that further questioning would be useless. Once again Gyrth took up the card and the two bank-notes.
    â€˜How do you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that I am the man to receive this letter?’
    Mr Lugg looked over his shoulder at the second envelope. ‘That’s yer name, ain’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s the name inside yer suit, any’ow. You showed me.’
    â€˜Yes, I know,’ said Val patiently. ‘But how do you know that I am the Percival St John Wykes Gyrth –?’
    â€˜Gawd! It don’t stand for all that, do it?’ said Mr Lugg, impressed. ‘That answers yer own question, my lad. There ain’t two mothers ’oo’d saddle a brat with that lot. That’s your invitation ticket all right. Don’t you worry. I should ’op it – it’s gettin’ late.’
    Gyrth considered the card again. It was mad, of course. And yet he had come so far that it seemed illogical not to go on. As though to clinch the matter with himself he paid for his food out of his new-found wealth, and after tipping his host prodigally he bade the man good-night and walked out of the deserted eating-house.
    It was not until he was outside the door and standing on the pavement that the problem of transportation occurred to him. It was a good three miles across the city to Piccadilly, and although his hunger was sated he was still excessively tired. To make the situation more uncomfortable it was very late and the rain had come in a sullen downpour.
    While he stood hesitating, the sound of wheels came softly behind him.
    â€˜Taxi, sir?’
    Gyrth turned thankfully, gave the man the address on the card, and climbed into the warm leather depths of the cab.
    As he sank back among the cushions the old feeling of well-being stole over him. The cab was speeding over the glistening roads along which he had trudged so wearily less than an hour before. For some minutes he reflected upon the extraordinary invitation he had accepted so unquestioningly. The ridiculous card read like a hoax, of course, but two pounds are not a joke to a starving man, and since he had nothing to lose he saw no reason why he should not investigate it. Besides, he was curious.
    He took the card out of his pocket and bent forward to read it by the light from the meter lamp. He could just make out the scribbled message: ‘Come along as soon as you can. It’s urgent. Take care.’
    The last two words