"Here you are at last!" he remarked somewhat coolly, and glanced at his watch. "Why didn't you turn up to dinner as arranged? It's close on nine o'clock."
"Couldn't get away from my aunt," replied Maunders, slipping leisurely into an adjacent chair. "She seemed to have the blues about something, and wouldn't let me go. Never was there so affectionate an aunt as Mrs. Bedge, and never one so tryingly attentive."
"Considering that she has brought you up in the past, supplies you with money at present, and intends to make you her heir in the future, you might talk more kindly of her."
Maunders shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, the Eton-Oxford education was all right; she did well by me there. But I don't get much money from her now, and judging from that, I may be heir to very little."
"You ought to be glad that you are an heir to anything," said Vernon frowning, for his friend's light tones jarred.
"Why?" asked the other. "My parents are dead long since. Aunt Emily is my only relative, and has neither chick nor child. If she didn't intend to leave me her money she should not have brought me up to luxury and idleness."
"It would certainly be better if she had made you work," assented the host contemptuously; "but you were always lazy and extravagant."
"I was born sitting down; I am a lily of the field and a rose of Sharon."
"Likewise an ass."
"You think so?" said Maunders drily. "Well, I hope to change your opinion on that point before we part."
"It will take a deal of changing. But all this talk is beside the purpose of our meeting. You made this appointment with me, and----"
"Didn't keep it to the minute. I'm nearly two hours late. Well, what does it matter?"
"Everything to me. I am a busy man," snapped the other sharply.
"So you say." Maunders looked very directly at his host. "Some fellows don't think so. Your business----"
Vernon interrupted. "I have no business; I am an independent man."
"And yet a busy one," rejoined Maunders softly; "strange."
There was that significance in his tone which made Vernon colour, although he remained motionless. He certainly was about to make a hasty observation, but his guest looked at him so straightly and smilingly, that he bit his lip and refrained from immediate speech. Maunders, still smiling, took a cigarette from a golden case and lighted up. "You might offer me a cup of coffee."
Vernon signalled to a passing attendant. "A cup of coffee for Mr. Maunders."
"With a vanilla bean," directed the other man. "I don't like coffee otherwise. And hurry up, please!" Then, when the servant departed, he turned suavely to his host. "I forget what we were talking about."
"So do I," retorted Vernon coolly.
Maunders, smoking delicately, rested his wrists on the copper edge of the table and looked searchingly into his friend's strong face. And Vernon's face was strong--much stronger than that of his companion. He likewise had blue eyes, but of a deep-sea blue, less shallow and more piercing than those of Maunders. His face was also oval, with finely cut features, but more scored with thought-marks; and his hair was as dark, smooth, and short-cropped as that of the other's was golden, curly, and--odd adjective to use in connection with a man--fluffy. Both were clean-shaven, but Vernon's mouth was firm, while the lips of Maunders were less compressed and betrayed indecision. The former had the more athletic figure, the latter a more graceful one, and although both were well groomed and well dressed, Vernon was less of the dandy in his attention to detail. Poetically speaking, one man was Night and the other Day; but a keen observer would have read that the first used strength of body and brain to achieve his ends, while the last relied more on cunning. And from the looks of the twain, cunning and strength were about to try conclusions. Yet they had been child-friends, school-friends, and--so far as their paths ran parallel--were life-friends, with certain reservations.
"You were always as deep as a well, Arty," said Maunders, finally removing his eyes from the other's face and turning to take his cup of coffee.
"Don't call me Arty!" snapped Vernon irritably.
"You were Arty at Eton, when we were boys, tall and short."
"We are not at Eton now. I always think that there is something weak in a man being called by his Christian name outside his family--much less being ticketed with a confounded diminutive."
"You can call me Conny if you like, as you used to."
"I shan't, or even Constantine. Maunders is good enough for me."
"Oh is he?" The fair man glanced shrewdly over the coffee-cup he was holding to his lips. "You hold to that."
"I hold to the name, not to the individual," said Vernon curtly.
"You don't trust me."
"I don't. I see no reason to trust you."
"Ah, you will when I explain why I asked you to meet me here," said Maunders in his frivolous manner.
"I daresay; go on."
His friend sighed. "What a laconic beast you are, Arty."
"My name is Vernon, if you please."
"Always Vernon?" asked Maunders in silky tones. The other man sat up alertly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I want you to take me into partnership."
"Partnership!" Vernon's face grew an angry red. "What the devil do you know?"
"Softly! softly! I know many things, although there is no need to swear. It's bad form, Vernon, deuced bad form. The fact is," he went on gracefully, "my aunt keeps me short of money, and I want all I can get to enjoy life. I thought as I am pretty good in finding out things about people that you might invite me to become a partner in your detective business."
Vernon cast a hasty glance around. Fortunately, there were no guests under the peristyle, and only two men, out of earshot, in the pinacotheca. "You are talking rubbish," he said roughly, yet apprehensively.
"I don't think so. Your father died three years ago and left you with next to nothing. Having no profession you did not know what to do, and, ashamed to beg, borrow, or steal, you turned your powers of observation to account on the side of the law against the criminal." Maunders took a card from his waistcoat pocket and passed it along. "'Nemo, Private Enquiry Agent, 22, Fenella Street, Covent Garden,' is inscribed on that card. Nemo means Nobody, I believe; yet Nemo, as I know, means Arthur Vernon of The Athenian Club."
The man addressed tore the card to pieces and threw them amongst the flowers. "You talk rubbish," he said again, and still roughly. "How do you connect me with this private enquiry agent?"
"Ah, that's too long a story to tell you just now." Maunders glanced at his watch. "I am due at a ball in an hour, and want the matter settled before I leave here."
"What matter?"
"The partnership matter." There was a pause. "Well?"
"I have nothing to say," said Vernon firmly.
Maunders rose. "In that case I'll cut along and go earlier than I expected to Lady Corsoon's ball."
"Lady Corsoon!" Vernon changed colour and bit his lip.
"Yes. She didn't ask you to her ball, did she? She wouldn't, of course, seeing that you are in love with her daughter Lucy. That young lady is to marry money, and you haven't any but what you make out of