They
behaved, indeed, as they both admitted afterwards, like a couple
of moonstruck idiots. When he had finally disappeared, however,
they looked at one another and the spell was broken.
"Well, I'm damned!" Francis exclaimed. "Soto, come here at
once."
The manager hastened smilingly to their table.
"Soto," Francis invoked, "tell us quickly--tell us the name of
the gentleman who has just gone out, and who he is?"
Soto was amazed.
"You don't know Sir Timothy Brast, sir?" he exclaimed. "Why, he
is supposed to be one of the richest men in the world! He spends
money like water. They say that when he is in England, his place
down the river alone costs a thousand pounds a week. When he
gives a party here, we can find nothing good enough. He is our
most generous client."
"Sir Timothy Brast," Wilmore repeated. "Yes, I have heard of
him."
"Why, everybody knows Sir Timothy," Soto went on eloquently. "He
is the greatest living patron of boxing. He found the money for
the last international fight."
"Does he often come in alone like this?" Francis asked curiously.
"Either alone," Soto replied, "or with a very large party. He
entertains magnificently."
"I've seen his name in the paper in connection with something or
other, during the last few weeks," Wilmore remarked reflectively.
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