“In that bally mail-sack which Louis brought in from Pride’s Fall there’s a telegram from your friend, Neville Cardross; and why the devil he wants Louis to come to New York on the jump—­”

“I have a small balance at the Shoshone Trust,” said Malcourt.  “Do you suppose there’s anything queer about the company?”

Hamil shook his head, looking curiously at Malcourt.

“Well, what on earth do you think Cardross wants with you?” demanded Portlaw.  “Read that telegram again.”

Again Malcourt’s instinct seemed to warn him to silence.  All the same, with a glance at Hamil, he unfolded the bit of yellow paper and read: 

“LOUIS MALCOURT,
“Superintendent Luckless Lake,
“Adirondacks.

“Your presence is required at my office in the Shoshone Securities Building on a matter of most serious and instant importance.  Telegraph what train you can catch.  Mr. Carrick will meet you on the train at Albany.

                                              “NEVILLE CARDROSS. 
   “Answer Paid.”

“Well, what the devil does it mean?” demanded Portlaw peevishly.  “I can’t spare you now.  How can I?  Here’s Hamil all ready for you to take him about and show him what I want to have done—­”

“I wonder what it means,” mused Malcourt.  “Maybe there’s something wrong with the Tressilvain end of the family.  The Shoshone Securities people manage her investments here—­”

“The way to do is to wire and find out,” grumbled Portlaw, leading the way to the luncheon table as a servant announced that function.

For it was certainly a function with Portlaw; all eating was more or less of a ceremony, and dinner rose to the dignity of a rite.

“I can’t imagine what that telegram—­”

“Forget it!” snapped Portlaw; “do you want to infect my luncheon?  When a man lunches he ought to give his entire mind to it.  Talk about your lost arts!—­the art of eating scarcely survives at all.  Find it again and you revive that other lost art of prandial conversation.  Digestion’s not possible without conversation.  Hamil, you look at your claret in a funny way.”

“I was admiring the colour where the sun strikes through,” said the latter, amused.

“Oh!  I thought you were remembering that claret is temporarily unfashionable.  That’s part of the degeneracy of the times.  There never was and never will be any wine to equal it when it has the body of a Burgundy and the bouquet of wild-grape blossoms.  Louis,” cocking his heavy red face and considering a morsel of duck, “what is your opinion concerning the proper melange for that plumcot salad dressing?”

“They say,” said Malcourt gravely, “that when it’s mixed, a current of electricity passed through it gives it a most astonishing flavour—­”

“What!”

“So they say at the Stuyvesant Club.”

Portlaw’s eyes bulged; Hamil had to bend his head low over his plate, but Malcourt’s bland impudence remained unperturbed.