"Monsieur would dine! It was very good! And Madame, of course?" with a
low bow. The _carte de jour_ was before Monsieur. He had but to give
his orders. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for
the cooking--well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to
him year after year. And always they were well satisfied. He waited
the pleasure of Monsieur.
Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a
word, and anglicizing others. When he had finished he took up the wine
list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne.
"I am afraid," he said to Anna afterwards, "that it was a mistake to
order the champagne sec. They will guess that I am English."
Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in
her eyes.
"Did you--did you really think that they would take you for a
Frenchman?" she exclaimed.
"I don't see why not," he answered. "These clothes are French, and I'm
sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Perhaps I
ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it
pretty well."
"You did," Anna exclaimed. "Thank Heaven, they are bringing the _hors
d'oeuvres_. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines. Do take them
away from me after I have had four."
"After all," Sir John remarked complacently, "it is astonishing how
easy it is for people with brains and a little knowledge of the world
to completely hide themselves. I am absolutely certain that up to the
present we have escaped all notice, and I do not believe that any
casual observer would take us for English people."
A man who had been sitting with his hat tilted over his eyes at an
adjacent table had risen to his feet and stood suddenly before them.
"Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir
John," he said, holding out a _Daily Telegraph_. "You may find in it a
paragraph of some interest to you."
Sir John was speechless. It was Annabel who caught at the paper.
"You--appear to know my name, sir," Sir John said.
"Oh, yes," the stranger remarked good-humouredly. "I know you very
well by sight, Sir John. It is my business to know most people. We
were fellow passengers from Charing Cross, and we have been fellow
lodgers in the Rue d'Entrepot. I trust you will not accuse me of
discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie
apart."
A little sobbing cry from Annabel arrested Sir John's attention. The
stranger with a bow returned to his table.
"Read this, John."
"THE BUCKNALL MANSIONS MYSTERY.
"Montague Hill, the man who was found lying wounded in Bucknall
Mansions late on Wednesday night in the rooms of a well-known
artiste, has recovered sufficiently to make a statement to the
police. It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the
lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of
drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined
attempt at suicide. He further gave the name and address of the
firm from whom he purchased the revolver and cartridges, a member
of which firm has since corroborated his statement.