I looked at him and smiled, perhaps a little wearily.  One can always command one’s eyes, but one’s lips sometimes get out of control.  He could not have noticed my lips, however, for he cried: 

“By George, you’re splendid!  I wish I could take a knock-out blow like that!”

“You’ll have to one of these days.  It’s the only way of taking it.  And now,” said I, in a businesslike tone, “I’ve told you all this with a purpose.  At Wymington it will be a case of ’Le Roi est mort.  Vive le Roi!’ The vacancy will have to be filled up at once.  We’ll have to find a suitable candidate.  Have you one in your mind?”

“Not a soul.”

“I have.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me?” He nearly sprang into the air with astonishment.

“Why not?”

“They’d never adopt me.”

“I think they would,” I said.  “There are men in the House as young as you.  You’re well known at Wymington and at headquarters as my right-hand man.  You’ve done some speaking—­you do it rather well; it’s only your private conversational style that’s atrocious.  You’ve got a name familiar in public life up and down the country, thanks to your father and mother.  It’s a fairly safe seat.  I see no reason why they shouldn’t adopt you.  Would you like it?”

“Like it?” he cried.  “Why I’d give my ears for it.”

“Then,” said I, playing my winning card, “let us hear no more about Lola Brandt.”

He gave me a swift glance, and walked up and down the room for a while in silence.  Presently he halted in front of me.

“Look here, Simon, you’re a beast, but”—­he smiled frankly at the quotation—­“you’re a just beast.  You oughtn’t to rub it in like that about Lola until you have seen her yourself.  It isn’t fair.”

“You speak now in language distinctly approaching that of reason,” I remarked.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Come with me this afternoon and see her.”

My young friend had me nicely in the trap.  I could not refuse.

“Very well,” said I.  “But on the distinct understanding—­”

“Oh, on any old understanding you like!” he cried, and darted to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To ring her up on the telephone and tell her you’re coming.”

That’s the worst of the young.  They have such a disconcerting manner of clinching one’s undertakings.

CHAPTER IV

My first impression of Lola Brandt in the dimness of the room was that of a lithe panther in petticoats rising lazily from the depths of an easy chair.  A sinuous action of the arm, as she extended her hand to welcome me, was accompanied by a curiously flexible turn of the body.  Her hand as it enveloped, rather than grasped, mine seemed boneless but exceedingly powerful.  An indoor dress of brown and gold striped Indian silk clung to her figure, which, largely built, had an appearance of great strength.  Dark bronze hair and dark eyes, that in the soft light of the room glowed with deep gold reflections, completed the pantherine suggestion.  She seemed to be on the verge of thirty.  A most dangerous woman, I decided—­one to be shut up in a cage with thick iron bars.