The Pawns Count | Page 4

buttonholed by an
important client as they crossed the threshold, and they lingered for a
moment, waiting for his guidance. Whilst they stood there, a curious
thing happened. The leader of the orchestra seemed to draw his fingers
recklessly across the strings of his instrument and to produce a discord
which was almost appalling. A half-pained, half-amused exclamation
rippled down the room. For a moment the music ceased. The conductor,
who was responsible for the disturbance, was sitting motionless, his
hand hanging down by his side. His features remained imperturbable,
but the gleam of his white teeth, and a livid little streak under his eyes
gave to his usually good-humoured face an utterly altered, almost a
malignant expression. Ferrani stepped across and spoke to him for a
moment angrily. The man took up his instrument, waved his hand, and
the music re-commenced in a subdued note. Pamela turned to the chief
maitre d'hotel, who had now re-joined them.
"What an extraordinary breakdown!" she exclaimed. "Is your leader a
man of nerves?"
"Never have I heard such a thing in all my days," Ferrani assured them
fervently. "Joseph is one of the most wonderful performers in the world.
His control over his instrument is marvellous.... Captain Holderness
asked particularly for this table."
They seated themselves at the table reserved for them against the wall.
Their cicerone was withdrawing with a low bow, but Pamela leaned
over to speak to him.
"Your music," she told him, "is quite wonderful. The orchestra consists
entirely of Americans, I suppose?"

"Entirely, madam," Ferrani assented. "They are real Southern darkies,
from Joseph, the leader, down to little Peter, who blows the
motor-horn."
Pamela's interest in the matter remained unabated.
"I tell you it makes one feel almost homesick to hear them play," she
went on, with a little sigh. "Did they come direct from the States?"
Ferrani shook his head.
"From Paris, madam. Before that, for a little time, they were at the
Winter Garden in Berlin. They made quite a European tour of it before
they arrived here."
"And he is the leader--the man whom you call Joseph," Pamela
observed. "A broad, good-humoured face--not much intelligence, I
should imagine."
Ferrani's protest was vigorous and gesticulatory. He evidently had ideas
of his own concerning Joseph.
"More, perhaps, than you would think, madam," he declared. "He
knows how to make a bargain, believe me. It cost us more than I would
like to tell you to get these fellows here."
Pamela looked him in the eyes.
"Be careful, Monsieur Ferrani," she advised, "that it does not cost you
more to get rid of them."
She leaned back in her place, apparently tired of the subject, and
Ferrani, a little puzzled, made his bow and withdrew. The music was
once more in full swing. Their luncheon was served, and Lutchester did
his best to entertain his companions. Their eyes, however, every few
seconds strayed towards the door. There was no sign of the missing
guest.

CHAPTER II
Molly Holderness, for whom Graham's absence possessed, perhaps,
more significance than the others, relapsed very soon into a strained
and anxious silence. Pamela and Lutchester, on the other hand, divided
their attention between a very excellent luncheon and an even flow of
personal, almost inquisitorial conversation.
"You will find," Pamela warned her companion almost as they took
their places, "that I am a very curious person. I am more interested in
people than in events. Tell me something about your work at the War
Office?"
"I am not at the War Office," he replied.
"Well, what is it that you do, then?" she asked. "Captain Holderness
told me that you had been out in France, fighting, but that you had
some sort of official position at home now."
"I am at the Ministry of Munitions," he explained.
"Well, tell me about that, then?" she suggested. "Is it as exciting as
fighting?"
He shook his head.
"It has advantages," he admitted, "but I should scarcely say that
excitement figured amongst them."
She looked at him thoughtfully. Lutchester was a little over thirty-five
years of age, tall and of sinewy build. His colouring was neutral, his
complexion inclined to be pale, his mouth straight and firm, his grey
eyes rather deep-set. Without possessing any of the stereotyped
qualifications, he was sufficiently good-looking.
"I wonder you didn't prefer soldiering," she observed.
He smiled for a moment, and Pamela felt unreasonably annoyed at the

twinkle in his eyes.
"I am not a soldier by profession," he said, "but I went out with the
Expeditionary Force and had a year of it. They kept me here, after a
slight wound, to take up my old work again."
"Your old work," she repeated. "I didn't know there was such a thing as
a Ministry of Munitions before the war."
He