"Ten to one he'll be out of town," said Percy Beaumont; "but we can at least
find out where he has gone, and we can immediately start in pursuit.
He can't possibly have gone to a hotter place, you know."

"Oh, there's only one hotter place," said Lord Lambeth,
"and I hope he hasn't gone there."

They strolled along the shady side of the street to the number
indicated upon the precious letter. The house presented
an imposing chocolate-colored expanse, relieved by facings
and window cornices of florid sculpture, and by a couple of dusty
rose trees which clambered over the balconies and the portico.
This last-mentioned feature was approached by a monumental
flight of steps.

"Rather better than a London house," said Lord Lambeth,
looking down from this altitude, after they had rung the bell.

"It depends upon what London house you mean," replied his companion.
"You have a tremendous chance to get wet between the house door
and your carriage."

"Well," said Lord Lambeth, glancing at the burning heavens,
"I 'guess' it doesn't rain so much here!"

The door was opened by a long Negro in a white jacket, who grinned
familiarly when Lord Lambeth asked for Mr. Westgate.

"He ain't at home, sah; he's downtown at his o'fice."