The Toff In Town

blouse. Her gloves and handbag and her shoes were white, and she had most attractive ankles.

Rollison studied the menu.

“If I were you, Mr. Rollison,” murmured the headwaiter, “I would try the game pie to-day.”

“Game pie,” said Rollison, and considered. “Henri, I think you’re right.”

Thank you,” said Henri, whose accent suggested that his name should be spelt Henry. “We haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you here for some little time.”

“I’ve been out of town,” said Rollison. “Henri.”

“Sir?”

“The young lady on my left.”

Henri’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, Mr. Rollison.”

“How well do you know her?”

“To the best of my knowledge I have never seen her before,” said Henri.

“Oh,” said Rollison, “that’s a pity.”

“It would perhaps be possible for me to tell her that her table has been reserved, it was a mistake to put her there, to ask her if she would object to sharing a table, perhaps?” Henri had known Rollison for a long time.

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “We mustn’t rush things.”

“You are the judge, Mr. Rollison.”

“You remember, a few years ago, that I left here by the staff door,” said Rollison hopefully.

“You have done so on more than one occasion,” said Henri.

“And shall again, to-day. This is a conspiracy, Henri. I would like you to give me the swiftest possible service, but cause a series of minor mishaps to happen with the young lady. Her soup—or is it hors- d’oeuvres ?—could be spilt, perhaps. She could be brought the wrong entree—or is it roast? I want to be out at least twenty minutes before she’s finished.”

“It shall be done,” said Henri.

From Blott’s to Gresham Terrace was only a three minute drive. Five minutes after he had slipped out of the staff exit of the restaurant, Rollison entered the hall of the Gresham Terrace flat and called: “Jolly !”

Jolly appeared.

“Sports jacket, flannels, brown shoes, pretend I’m going to Lords,” said Rollison. “I’ve got ten minutes.”

“At once, sir!”

Rollison disappeared into the bath-room and took from the cabinet a small box of theatrical make-up. It did not contain everything theatrically necessary, and a star would not have been pleased with the curious assortment of grease-paints, spirit, brushes and accessories—and would have been puzzled by the number of false moustaches and false beards. Rollison eschewed grease-paint, but smeared spirit gum on a small moustache and a Van Dyck beard. As he did this, peering closely into the mirror, Jolly came in. In ten minutes, Rollison was changed; and although no one who knew him well could have been deceived, the beard and moustache made a marked difference to his appearance. He took a pair of black cotton gloves from his wardrobe, tucked them into his pocket and glanced at himself in the mirror.

•Will I do?” he asked Jolly.

That will suit your purpose, I have no doubt, sir.”

“Good! I’m leaving the car in Leicester Square, fetch it for me in twenty minutes or so.”

“Very good, sir. May I inquire——”

The young woman who telephoned at four o’clock last night has been following me about all the morning,” said Rollison. “I am now going to follow her. Any word from Mr. Wardle?”

“He will be happy to meet you at the Aeolian Hall at 5 o’clock this evening, sir.”

“Good,” said Rollison, and went out

Rollison sat in the taxi, near Blott’s, and watched the restaurant door. There was a possibility that the girl had already left; there was no way of telling without going into the restaurant, and he did not want to do that So he smoked a cigarette and chatted with Perky Lowe. Perky, who had helped him before, was a short man with a huge, turnip-shaped head, on the back of which he wore a green cap, as a kind of halo. His eyes were merry and his manner bright He had a snub nose and discoloured teeth, and smoked continually.

“How’s business, Perky?” asked Rollison.

“Pretty good, considering,” said Perky. “Cor strike a light, I never thought I’d see the day when torfs argued wiv each other for the priv’ledge of riding in my cab !”

“It’s a nice change for you,” said Rollison.

“Gets a laugh out of it, I do,” said Perky. “People ain’t arf perlite, too, and they don’t tip thruppence no more. They crosses me palm wiv silver, as if I was a ruddy fortune-teller. Know where we’re going,” Mr. Ar?”

“I may send you off on your own a bit later on,” said Rollison.