"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.
"Ah, you will when I explain why I asked you to meet me here," said Maunders in his frivolous manner.
His friend sighed. "What a laconic beast you are, Arty."
"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?"