The chauffeur was apparently seeking every pothole in the ground, and in the next five minutes she was alternately clutching the support of the arm-strap and Monty. They were relieved when at last the car found a metal road and began its noiseless way towards The Lights. And then her hand sought his, and for the moment this beautiful flower which had grown in such foul soil, bloomed in the radiance of a love common to every woman, high and low, good and bad.
XVIII
At Frater’s
Manfred suggested an early dinner at the Lasky, where the soup was to his fastidious taste. Leon, who had eaten many crumpets for tea—he had a weakness for this indigestible article of diet—was prepared to dispense with the dinner, and Poiccart had views, being a man of steady habits. They dined at the Lasky, and Leon ordered a baked onion, and expatiated upon the two wasted years of Poiccart’s life, employing a wealth of imagery and a beauty of diction worthy of a better subject.
Manfred looked at his watch.
“Where are they dining?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” said Leon. “Our friend will be here in a few minutes; when we go out he will tell us. You don’t want to see her?”
Manfred shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“I’m going to be bored,” complained Poiccart.
“Then you should have let me bring Alma,” said Leon promptly.
“Exactly.” Raymond nodded his sober head. “I have the feeling that I am saving a lady from an unutterably dreary evening.”
There was a man waiting for them when they came out of the restaurant—a very uninteresting-looking man who had three sentences to say sotto voce as they stood near him, but apparently in ignorance of his presence.
“I did not wish to go to Mero’s,” said Manfred, “but as we have the time, I think it would be advisable to stroll in that direction. I am curious to discover whether this is really Oberzohn’s little treat, or whether the idea emanated from the unadmirable Mr. Newton.”
“And how will you know, George?” asked Gonsalez.
“By the car. If Oberzohn is master of the ceremonies, we shall find his machine parked somewhere in the neighbourhood. If it is Newton’s idea, then Oberzohn’s limousine, which brought them from South London, will have returned, and Newton’s car will be in its place.”
Mero’s was one of the most fashionable of dining clubs, patronized not only by the elite of society, but having on its books the cream of the theatrical world. It was situated in one of those quiet, old-world squares which are to be found in the very heart of London, enjoying, for some mysterious reason, immunity from the hands of the speculative property owner. The square retained the appearance it had in the days of the Georges; and though some of the fine mansions had been given over to commerce and the professions, and the lawyer and the manufacturer’s agent occupied the drawing-rooms and bedrooms sacred to the bucks and beauties of other days, quite a large number of the houses remained in private occupation.
There was nothing in the fascia of Mero’s to advertise its character. The club premises consisted of three of these fine old dwellings. The uninitiated might not even suspect that there was communication between the three houses, for the old doorways and doorsteps remained untouched, though only one was used.
They strolled along two sides of the square before, amidst the phalanx of cars that stood wheel to wheel, their backs to the railings of the centre gardens, they saw Oberzohn’s car.
The driver sat with his arms folded on the wheel, in earnest conversation with a pale-faced man, slightly and neatly bearded, and dressed in faultless evening dress. He was evidently a cripple: one shoulder was higher than the other; and when he moved, he walked painfully with the aid of a stick.
Manfred saw the driver point up the line of cars, and the lame gentleman limped in the direction the chauffeur had indicated and stopped to speak to another man in livery. As they came abreast of him, they saw that one of his boots had a thick sole, and the limp was explained.
“The gentleman has lost his car,” said Manfred, for now he was peering short-sightedly at the number-plates.
The theft of cars was a daily occurrence. Leon had something to say on the potentialities of that branch of crime. He owned to an encyclopaedic knowledge of the current fashions in wrongdoing, and in a few brief sentences indicated the extent of these thefts.
“Fifty a week are shipped to India and the Colonies, after their numbers are erased and another substituted. In some cases the ‘knockers off,’ as they call the thieves, drive them straight away into the packing-cases which are prepared for every make of car; the ends are nailed up, and they are waiting shipment at the docks before the owner is certain of his loss. There are almost as many stolen cars in India, South Africa and Australia as there are honest ones!”
They walked slowly past the decorous portals of Mero’s, and caught a glimpse, through the curtained windows, of soft table lamps burning, of bare-armed women and white-shirted men, and heard faintly the strains of an orchestra playing a Viennese waltz.
“I should like to see our Jane,” said Gonsalez. “She never came to you, did she?”
“She came, but I didn’t see her,” said Manfred. “From the moment she leaves the theatre she must not be left.”
Leon nodded.
“I have already made that arrangement,” he said. “Digby—”
“Digby takes up his duty at midnight,” said Manfred. “He has been down to Oberzohn’s place to get the lie of the land: he thought it advisable that he should study the topography in daylight, and I agreed. He might get himself into an awkward tangle if he started exploring the
