"I'm afraid…" began Jherek.
"Sit down my dear fellow and have some wine." Mr. Harris stood up, shaking his hand warmly, pressing him downwards into a chair. "How are all my good friends in Paris? Zola? I was sorry to hear about poor Goncourt. And how is Daudet, at present? Madame Rattazzi is well, I hope." He winked. "And be sure, when you return, to give my regards to my old friend the Comtesse de Loynes…"
"The man," said Jherek, "who was sitting across the table from you. Do you know him, Mr. Harris?"
"He's a contributor to the Review from time to time, like everyone else here. Name of Jackson. Does little pieces on the arts for us."
"Jackson?"
"Do you know his stuff? If you want to meet him, I'll be glad to introduce you. But I thought your interest in coming to the Cafe Royale tonight was in talking to H. G. Wells here. He's a rather larger gun, these days, eh, Wells?" Mr. Harris roared with laughter and slapped Mr. Wells on the shoulder. The quieter man smiled wanly, but he was plainly pleased by Harris's description.
"It's a pity so few of our other regular contributors are here tonight," Harris went on. "Kipling said he'd come, but as usual hasn't turned up. A bit of a dour old dog, y'know. And nothing of Richards for weeks. We thought we were to be blessed by a visitation from Mr. Pett Ridge, too, tonight. All we can offer are Gregory, here, one of our editors." A gangling young man who grinned as, unsteadily, he poured himself another glass of champagne. "And this is our drama critic, name of Shaw." A red-bearded, sardonic looking man with eyes almost as arresting as Mr. Wells's, dressed in a suit of tweeds which seemed far too heavy for the weather, acknowledged the introduction with a grave bow from where he was seated at the far end of the table looking over a bundle of printed papers and occasionally making marks on them with his pen.
"I am glad to meet all of you, gentlemen," said Jherek Carnelian desperately. "But it is the man — Mr. Jackson, you called him — who I am anxious to speak to."
"Hear that, Wells?" cried Mr. Harris. "He's not interested in your fanciful flights at all. He wants Jackson. Jackson!" Mr. Harris looked rather blearily about him. "Where's Jackson gone? He'll be delighted to know he's read in Paris, I'm sure. We'll have to put his rates up to a guinea an item if he gets any more famous."
Mr. Wells was frowning, staring hard at Jherek. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly high. "You don't look too well, M. Fromental. Have you recently come over?"
"Very recently," said Jherek. "And my name isn't Fromental. It's Carnelian."
"Where on earth is Jackson?" Mr. Harris was demanding.
"We're all a bit drunk," said Mr. Wells to Jherek. "The last of the copy's gone off and Frank always likes to come here to celebrate." He called to Mr. Harris. "Probably gone back to the office, wouldn't you say?"
"That's it," said Mr. Harris satisfied.
"Would you kindly refrain from making so much damned noise, Harris!" said the red-headed man at the far end of the table. "I promised these proofs back by tonight. And where's our dinner, by the way?"
Mr. Wells leaned forward and touched Mr. Harris on the arm. "Are you absolutely sure this chap Fromental's turning up, Harris? I should have left by now. I've some business to attend to."
"Turning up? He's here, isn't he?"
"This appears to be a Mr. Carnelian," said Mr. Wells dryly.
"Oh, really? Well, Fromental will turn up. He's reliable."
"I didn't think you knew him personally."
"That's right," Mr. Harris said airily, "but I've heard a lot about him. He's just the man to help you, Wells."
Mr. Wells seemed sceptical. "Well, I'd better get off, I think."
"You won't stay to have your supper?" Mr. Harris was disappointed. "There were one or two ideas I wanted to discuss with you."
"I'll drop round to the office during the week, if that's all right," said Mr. Wells, rising. He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "If I get a cab I ought to make it to Charing Cross in time for the nine o'clock train."
"You're going back to Woking?"
"To Bromley," said Mr. Wells. "Some business I promised to clear up for my parents."
"To Bromley, did you say?" Jherek sprang from his chair. "To Bromley, Mr. Wells?"
Mr. Wells was amused. "Why, yes. D'you know it?"
"You are going now?"
"Yes."
"I have been trying to get to Bromley for — well, for a very long time. Might I accompany you?"
"Certainly." Mr. Wells laughed. "I never heard of anyone who was eager to visit Bromley before. Most of us are only too pleased to get away from it. Come on, then, Mr. Carnelian. We'll have to hurry!"
11. A Conversation on Time Machines and Other Topics
Although Mr. Wells's spirits seemed to have lifted considerably after he had left the Cafe Royale, he did not speak much until they had left the cab and were safely seated in a second class carriage which smelled strongly of smoke. At the ticket office Jherek had been embarrassed when he was expected to pay for his fare, but Wells, generously supposing him to have no English money, had paid for them both. Now he sat panting in one corner while Jherek sat opposite him in the other. Jherek took a wondering curiosity in the furnishings of the carriage. They were not at all as he had imagined them. He noted little stains and tears in the upholstery and assured himself that he would reproduce them faithfully at the next opportunity.
"I am extremely grateful to you, Mr. Wells. I had begun to wonder if I should ever find Bromley."
"You have friends there, have you?"
"One friend, yes. A lady. Perhaps you know her?"
"I know one or two people still, in Bromley."
"Mrs. Amelia Underwood?"
Mr. Wells frowned, shook his head and began to pack tobacco into his pipe. "No, I'm afraid not. What part does she live in?"
"Her address is 23 Collins Avenue."
"Ah, yes. One of the newer streets. Bromley's expanded a lot since I was a lad."
"You know the street?"
"I think so, yes. I'll put you on your way, don't worry." Mr. Wells sat back with his eyes twinkling. "Typical of old Harris to confuse you with someone else he'd never met. For some reason he hates to admit that he doesn't know someone. As a result he claims to know people he's absolutely no acquaintance with, they hear that he's spoken of them as if they were his dearest friends, get offended and won't have anything to do with him!" Mr. Wells's voice was high-pitched, bubbling, animated. "I'm inclined to be a bit in awe of him, none the less. He's ruined half-a-dozen papers, but still publishes some of the best stuff in London — and he gave me a chance I needed. You write for the French papers do you, Mr. Carnelian?"
"Well, no…" said Jherek, anxious not to have a repetition of his previous experience, when he had told the absolute truth and had been thoroughly disbelieved. "I travel a little."
"In England?"
"Oh, yes."
"And where have you visited so far?"
"Just the 19th century," said Jherek.
Mr. Wells plainly thought he had misheard Jherek, then his smile broadened. "You've read my book!" he said ebulliently. "You travel in time, do you, sir?"
"I do," said Jherek, relieved to be taken seriously for once.
"And you have a time machine?" Mr. Wells's eyes twinkled again.