“Good God!” muttered Portlaw; “Hamil, did you ever hear of passing electricity through a salad dressing composed of olive oil, astragon, Arequipa pepper, salt, Samara mustard, essence of anchovy, chives, distilled fresh mushrooms, truffles pickled in 1840 port—­did you?”

“No,” said Hamil, “I never did.”

For a while silence settled upon the table while Portlaw struggled to digest mentally the gastronomic suggestion offered by Malcourt.

“I could send to town for a battery,” he said hesitatingly; “or—­there’s my own electric plant—­”

Malcourt yawned.  There was not much fun in exploiting such a man.  Besides, Hamil had turned uncomfortable, evidently considering it the worst of taste on Malcourt’s part.

“What am I to do about that telegram?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Portlaw, immersed in sauce and the electrical problem, adjusted his mind with an effort to this other and less amusing question.

“Wire for particulars and sit tight,” advised Portlaw.  “We’ve just three now for ‘Preference,’ and if you go kiting off to town Hamil and I will be forced into double dummy, and that’s a horrible mental strain on a man—­isn’t it, Hamil?”

“I could use the long-distance telephone,” said Malcourt pensively.

“Well, for the love of Mike go and do it!” shouted Portlaw, “and let me try to enjoy this Andelys cheese.”

So Malcourt sauntered out through the billiard-room, leaving an aromatic trail of cigarette smoke in his wake; and he closed all the intervening doors—­why, he himself could not have explained.

He was absent a long time.  Portlaw had terminated the table ceremony, and now, ensconced among a dozen fat cushions by the fire, a plump cigar burning fragrantly between his curiously clean-cut and sharply chiselled lips, he sat enthroned, majestically digesting; and his face of a Greek hero, marred by heavy flesh, had become almost somnolent in its expression of well-being and corporeal contentment.

“I don’t know what I’d do without Louis,” he said sleepily.  “He keeps my men hustling, he answers for everything on the bally place, he’s so infernally clever that he amuses me and my guests, he’s on the job every minute.  It would be devilishly unpleasant for me if I lost him....  And I’m always afraid of it....  There are usually a lot of receptive girls making large eyes at him....  My only safety is that they are so many—­and so easy....  If Cardross hadn’t signed that telegram I’d bet my bottes-sauvage it concerned some entanglement.”

Hamil lay back in his chair and studied the forest through the leaded casement.  Sometimes he thought of Portlaw’s perverse determination to spoil the magnificent simplicity of the place with exotic effects lugged in by the ears; sometimes he wondered what Mr. Cardross could have to say to Malcourt—­what matter of such urgent importance could possibly concern those two men.