‘Where are my silver-mounted pistols? Where’s the ibex-hoof made into a paper-weight? And’ – he raised his voice to a shout of comical despair – ‘where’s my cheque-book?’

‘I see.’

‘I wish I did. It must break the record for a neat house-robbery, don’t you think? And they’ll never be caught – I’ll bet you anything you like they won’t. The job was planned weeks ago; that woman came into the house with no other purpose.’

‘But didn’t your wife know anything about her?’

‘What can one know about such people? There were references, I believe – as valuable as references usually are. She must be an old hand. But I’m sick of the subject; let’s drop it. – You were interrupted, Hollings. What about that bustard?’

A very tall, spare man, who seemed to rouse himself from a nap, resumed his story of bustard-stalking in Spain last spring.3 Carnaby, who knew the country well, listened with lively interest, and followed with reminiscences of his own. He told of a certain boar, shot in the Sierras, which weighed something like four hundred pounds. He talked, too, of flamingoes on the ‘marismas’ of the Guadalquivir; of punting day after day across the tawny expanse of water; of cooking his meals on sandy islets at a fire made of tamarisk and thistle; of lying wakeful in the damp, chilly nights, listening to frogs and bitterns. Then again of his ibex-hunting on the Cordilleras of Castile, when he brought down that fine fellow whose head adorned his room, the horns just thirty-eight inches long. And in the joy of these recollections there seemed to sound a regretful note, as if he spoke of things gone by and irrecoverable, no longer for him.

One of the men present had recently been in Cyprus, and mentioned it with disgust. Rolfe also had visited the island, and remembered it much more agreeably, his impressions seeming to be chiefly gastronomic; he recalled the exquisite flavour of Cyprian hares, the fat francolin, the delicious beccaficoes in commanderia wine; with merry banter from Carnaby, professing to despise a man who knew nothing of game but its taste. The conversation reverted to technicalities of sport, full of terms and phrases unintelligible to Harvey; recounting feats with ‘Empress’ and ‘Paradox’, the deadly results of a ‘treble A’, or of ‘treble-nesting slugs’, and boasting of a ‘right and left with No. 6’. Hugh appeared to forget all about his domestic calamity; only when his guests rose did he recur to it, and with an air of contemptuous impatience. But he made a sign to Rolfe, requesting him to stay, and at midnight the two friends sat alone together.

‘Sibyl has gone to her mother’s,’ began Hugh in a changed voice. ‘The poor girl takes it pluckily. It’s a damnable thing, you know, for a woman to lose her rings and bracelets and so on – even such a woman as Sibyl. She tried to laugh it off, but I could see – we must buy them again, that’s all. And that reminds me – what’s your real opinion of Frothingham?’

Harvey laughed.

‘When such a lot of people go about asking that question, it would make me rather uneasy if I had anything at stake.’

‘They do? So it struck me. The fact is, we have a good deal at stake. The dowager swears by Frothingham. I believe every penny she has is in the “Britannia”, one way or another.’

‘It’s a wide net,’ said Rolfe musingly. ‘The Britannia Loan, Assurance, Investment, and Banking Company, Limited. Very good name, I’ve often thought.’

‘Yes; but, look here, you don’t seriously doubt—’

‘My opinion is worthless. I know no more of finance than of the Cabala. Frothingham personally I rather like, and that’s all I can say.’

‘The fact is, I have been thinking of putting some of my own – yet I don’t think I shall. We’re going away for the winter. Sibyl wants to give up the house, and I think she’s right. For people like us, it’s mere foolery to worry with a house and a lot of servants.