The Pawns Count | Page 5

deliberately changed the conversation, directing Pamela's attention
to the crowded condition of the room.
"Gay scene, isn't it?" he remarked.
"Very!" she assented drily.
"Do you come here to dance?" he inquired.
She shook her head.
"You must remember that I have been living in Paris for some months,"
she told him. "You won't be annoyed if I tell you that the way you
English people are taking the war simply maddens me. Your young
soldiers talk about it as though it were a sort of picnic, your
middle-aged clubmen seem to think that it was invented to give them a
fresh interest in their newspapers, and the rest of you seem to think of
nothing but the money you are making. And Paris.... No, I don't think I
should care to dance here!"
Lutchester nodded, but Pamela fancied somehow or other that his
attitude was not wholly sympathetic. His tone, with its slight note of
admonition, irritated her.
"You must be careful," he said, "not to be too much misled by
externals."
Pamela opened her lips for a quick reply, but checked herself.
Captain Holderness and Ferrani had entered the room and were

approaching their table, talking earnestly. The latter especially was
looking perplexed and anxious.
"It's the queerest thing I ever knew," Holderness pronounced. "We've
searched every hole and corner upstairs, and there isn't a sign of
Sandy."
"Have you tried the bar?" Lutchester inquired.
"Both the bar and the grillroom," Ferrani assured him.
"If he had been suddenly taken ill--" Molly murmured.
"But there is no place in which he could have been taken ill which we
have not searched," Ferrani reminded her.
"And besides," Holderness intervened, "Sandy was in the very pink of
health, and bubbling over with high-spirits."
"One noticed that," Lutchester remarked, a little drily.
"He might almost have been called garrulous," Pamela agreed.
Ferrani took grave leave of them, and Holderness seated himself at the
table.
"Well, let's get on with luncheon, anyway," he advised. "It's no good
bothering. The best thing we can do is to conclude that the impossible
has happened--that Sandy has met with some pals and will be here
presently."
"Or possibly," Lutchester suggested, "that he has done what certainly
seems the most reasonable thing--gone straight off to the War Office
with his formula and forgotten all about us. Let us return the
compliment and forget all about him."
They finished their luncheon a little more cheerfully. As the cigarettes
were handed round, Pamela's eyes looked longingly at a tray of Turkish
coffee which was passing.

"I'm a rotten host," Holderness declared, "but, to tell you the truth, this
queer prank of Sandy's has driven everything else out of my mind. Here,
Hassan!"
The coloured man in gorgeous oriental livery turned at once with a
smile. He approached the table, bowing to each of them in turn. Pamela
watched him intently, and, as his eyes met hers, Hassan's hands began
to shake.
"The waiter is bringing us ordinary coffee," Holderness explained.
"Please countermand it and bring us Turkish coffee for four."
The man had lost his savoir faire. His wonderful smile had turned into
something sickly, his bland speech of thanks into a mumble. He turned
away almost sheepishly.
"Hassan doesn't seem to like us to-day," Molly remarked.
"I should have said that he was drunk," her brother observed, looking
after him curiously.
There was certainly something the matter with Hassan, for it was at
least a quarter of an hour before he reappeared and served his specially
prepared concoction with the usual ceremony but with more restraint.
Molly and the two men, after Hassan had sprinkled the contents of his
mysterious little flask into their coffee, gave him their hands for the
customary salute. When he came to Pamela he hesitated. She shook her
head and he fell back, bowing respectfully, his hand tracing cabalistic
signs across his heart. For a moment before he departed, he raised his
eyes and glanced at her. It was like the mute appeal of some hurt or
frightened animal.
"You don't approve of Hassan's little ceremony?" Lutchester asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"In America," she observed, "I think we look upon coloured people of
any sort a little differently. Well, we've certainly given your friend a

chance," she went on, glancing at the little jewelled watch upon her
wrist, "We've outstayed almost every one here."
Their host paid the bill, and they strolled reluctantly towards the door,
Holderness and Pamela a few steps behind.
"Now what are your sister and Mr. Lutchester studying again?" the
latter inquired, as they reached the lobby.
Molly had paused once more before the notice on the wall, which
seemed somehow to have fascinated her. She read it out, lingering on
every word:
MEFIEZ-VOUS! TAISEZ-VOUS! LES OREILLES ENNEMIES
VOUS