"He's rich," said Mr. Immelbern.
"I wish I could remember where I met him," said the Colonel, frowning over his own train of thought. "I hate to forget a face."
"You doddering old fool!" snarled Mr. Immelbern, smiling at him affectionately. "What do I care about your memory? The point is that he's rich, and he seemed to recognise you. Well, that saves a lot of trouble, doesn't it?"
The Colonel turned towards him and blinked.
"What do you mean?"
"Will you never wake up?" moaned Mr. Immelbern, extending his cigarette-case with every appearance of affability. "Here you've been sitting whining and moping for half an hour because we don't get a chance to make a click, and when a chance does come along you can't see it. What do I care where you met the man? What do I care if you never met him? He nodded to you, and he's sitting two yards away — and you ask me what I mean!"
The Colonel frowned at him for a moment. He was, as we have explained, a born conservative. He never allowed himself to be carried away. He deliberated. He calculated. He explored. He would, but for the ever-present stimulus of Mr. Immelbern, have done as little as any other conservative.
But gradually the frown faded, and a dignified smile took its place.
"There may be something in what you say, Sid," he conceded.
"Go on," ordered Mr. Immelbern crudely. "Hop it. And try to wake your ideas up a bit. If somebody threw a purse into your lap, you'd be asking me what it was."
Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon gave him an aristocratically withering look, and rose sedately from the table. He went over to where the young man sat and coughed discreetly.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, and the young man looked up from his idle study of the afternoon's runners at Sandown Park. "You must have thought me a trifle rude just now."
"Not at all," said the young man amiably. "I thought you were busy and didn't want to be bothered. How are things these days, George?"
The Colonel suppressed a start. The use of his Christian name implied an intimacy that was almost alarming, but the young man's pleasant features still struck no responsive chord in his memory.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I'm afraid my eyes are not as good as they were. I didn't recognise you until you had gone by. Dear me! How long is it since I saw you last?"
The young man thought for a moment.
"Was it at Biarritz in 1929?"
"Of course!" exclaimed Uppingdon delightedly — he had never been to Biarritz in his life. "By Gad, how the times does fly! I never thought I should have to ask when I last saw you, my dear—"
He broke off short, and an expression of shocked dismay overspread his face.
"Good Gad!" he blurted. "You'll begin to think there's something the matter with me. Have you ever had a lapse of memory like that? I had your name on the tip of my tongue — I was just going to say it — and it slipped off! Wait — don't help me — didn't it begin with H?"
"I'm afraid not," said the young man pleasantly.
"Not either of your names?" pursued the Colonel hopefully.
"No."
"Then it must have been J."
"No."
"I mean T."
The young man nodded. Uppingdon took heart.
"Let me see. Tom — Thomson — Travers — Terrington—"
The other smiled.
"I'd better save you the trouble. Templar's the name — Simon Templar."
Uppingdon put a hand to his head.
"I knew it!" He was certain that he had never met anyone named Simon Templar. "How stupid of me! My dear chap, I hardly know how to apologise. Damned bad form, not even being able to remember a fellow's name. Look here, you must give me a chance to put it right. What about joining us for a drink? Or are you waiting for somebody?"
Simon Templar shook his head.
"No — I just dropped in."
"Splendid!" said the Colonel. "Splendid! Perfectly splendid!" He seized the young man's arm and led him across to where Mr. Immelbern waited. "By Gad, what a perfectly splendid coincidence. Simon, you must meet Mr. Immelbern. Sidney, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Templar. By Gad!"
Simon found himself ushered into the best chair, his drink paid for, his health proposed and drunk with every symptom of cordiality.
"By Gad!" said the Colonel, mopping his brow and beaming.
"Quite a coincidence, Mr. Templar," remarked Immelbern, absorbing the word into his vocabulary.
"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.