"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.
There was plenty of caviar, and some excellent sherry to pass the time while the Colonel was preparing the sandwiches. The wine was impeccable, and the quantity apparently unlimited. Under its soothing influence even the morose Mr. Immelbern seemed to thaw slightly, although towards the end of the meal he kept looking at his watch and comparing it anxiously with the clock on the mantelpiece. At a quarter to two he caught his partner's eye in one of the rare lulls in the Colonel's meandering flow of reminiscence.
"Well, Sir George," he said grimly, "if you can spare the time now—"
"Of course," said the Colonel brightly.
Mr. Immelbern looked at their guest, and hesitated again.
"Er — to deal with our business."
Simon put down his glass and rose quickly.
"I'll leave you to it," he said pleasantly. "Really, I've imposed on you quite long enough."
"Sit down, my dear chap, sit down," commanded the Colonel testily. "Dammit, Sidney, your suspicions are becoming ridiculous. If you go on in this way I shall begin to believe you suffer from delusions of persecution. I've already told you that Mr. Templar is an old friend of mine, by Gad, and it's an insult to a guest in my house to suggest that you can't trust him. Anything we have to discuss can be said in front of him."
"But think, Sir George. Think of the risk!"
"Nonsense," snorted the Colonel. "It's all in your imagination. In fact" — the idea suddenly appeared to strike him — "I'm damned if I don't tell him what it's all about."
Mr. Immelbern opened his mouth, closed it again, and sank back wearily without speaking. His attitude implied that he had already exhausted himself in vain appeals to an obvious lunatic, and he was beginning to realise that it was of no avail. He could do no more.
"It's like this, my dear chap," said the Colonel, ignoring him. "All that this mystery amounts to — all that Immelbern here is so frightened of telling you — is that we are professional gamblers. We back racehorses."
"That isn't all of it," contradicted Mr. Immelbern sullenly.
"Well, we have certain advantages. I, in my social life, am very friendly with a large number of racehorse owners. Mr. Immelbern is friendly with trainers and jockeys. Between the two of us, we sometimes have infallible information, the result of piecing together everything we hear from various sources, of times when the result of a certain race has positively been arranged. Then all we have to do is to make our bets and collect the money. That happens to be our business this afternoon. We have an absolutely certain winner for the two o'clock race at Sandown Park, and in a few minutes we shall be backing it."
Mr. Immelbern dosed his eyes as if he could endure no more.
"That seems quite harmless," said Templar.
"Of course it is," agreed the Colonel. "What Immelbern is so frightened of is that somebody will discover what we're doing — I mean that it might come to the knowledge of some of our friends who are owners or trainers or jockeys, and then our sources of information would be cut off. But, by Gad, I insist on the privilege of being allowed to know when I can trust my own friends."
"Well, I won't give you away," Simon told him obligingly.
The Colonel turned to Immelbern triumphantly.
"There you are! So there's no need whatever for our little party to break up yet, unless Mr. Templar has an engagement. Our business will be done in a few minutes. By Gad, damme, I think you owe Mr. Templar an apology!"
Mr. Immelbern sighed, stared at his finger-nails for a while in grumpy silence, and consulted his watch again.
"It's nearly five to two," he said. "How much can we get on?"
"About a thousand, I think," said the Colonel judiciously.
Mr. Immelbern got up and went to the telephone, where he dialed a number.
"This is Immelbern," he said, in the voice of a martyr responding to the roll-call for the all-in lion-wrestling event. "I want two hundred pounds on Greenfly."
He heard his bet repeated, pressed down the hook, and dialed again.
"We have to spread it around to try and keep the starting price from shortening," explained the Colonel.
Simon Templar nodded, and leaned back with his eyes half-closed, listening to the click and tinkle of the dial and Immelbern's afflicted voice. Five times the process was repeated, and during the giving of the fifth order Uppingdon interrupted again.
"Make it two-fifty this time, Sidney," he said.
Mr. Immelbern said: "Just a moment, will you hold on?" to the transmitter, covered it with his hand, and turned aggrievedly.
"I thought you said a thousand. That makes a thousand and fifty."
"Well, I thought Mr. Templar might like to have fifty on." Simon hesitated.
"That's about all I've got on me," he said.
"Don't let that bother you, my dear boy," boomed Colonel Uppingdon. "Your credit's good with me, and I feel that I owe you something to compensate for what you've put up with. Make it a hundred if you like."
"But Sir George!" wailed Mr. Immelbern.
"Dammit, will you stop whining 'But Sir George!'?" exploded the Colonel. "That settles it. Make it three hundred — that will be a hundred on for Mr. Templar. And if the horse doesn't win, I'll stand the loss myself."
A somewhat strained silence prevailed after the last bet had been made. Mr. Immelbern sat down again and chewed the unlighted end of a cigar in morbid meditations. The Colonel twiddled his thumbs as if the embarrassment of these recurrent disputes was hard to shake off. Simon Templar lighted a cigarette and smoked calmly.
"Have you been doing this long?" he inquired. "For about two years," said the Colonel. "By Gad, though, we've made money at it. Only about one horse in ten that we back doesn't romp home, and most of 'em are at good prices. Sometimes our money does get back to the course and spoil the price, but I'd rather have a winner at evens than a loser at ten to one any day. Why, I remember one race meeting we had at Delhi. That was the year when old Stubby Featherstone dropped his cap in the Ganges — he was the fella who got killed at Cambrai…"