The Pawns Count | Page 3

ran for their lives. It's the principle of intensification. The poison feeds on its own vapours. The formula--I've got it in my pocket-book--"
"Look here, old fellow," Holderness interrupted, "it's all splendid, of course, and I'm dying to hear you talk about it, but come along now and be introduced to Miss Van Teyl. Molly's over there, waiting, and we're all half starved."
"So am I," was the cheerful answer. "Hullo, Lutchester, how are you? Just one moment. I must get a wash, I motored straight through, and I'm choked with dust. Where do I go?"
"I'll show you," Lutchester volunteered. "Hurry up."
The two men sprang up the stairs towards the dressing-room, and Holderness strolled back to where his sister and Pamela were talking to a small, dark young man, with rather high cheek-bones and olive complexion. Pamela turned around with a smile.
"I have found an old friend," she told him. "Baron Sunyea--Captain Holderness. Baron Sunyea used to be in the Japanese Embassy at Washington."
The two men shook hands.
"I was interested," the Japanese said slowly, "in your conversation just now about that notice. Your young friend was telling you news very loudly indeed, it seemed to me, which you would not like known across the North Sea. Am I not right?"
"In a sense you are, of course," Holderness admitted, "but here at Henry's--why, the place is like a club. Where are the enemies' ears to come from, I should like to know?"
"Where we least expect to find them, as a rule," was the grave reply.
"Quite right," Lutchester, who had just rejoined them, agreed. "They still say, you know, that our home Secret Service is just as bad as our foreign Secret Service is good."
Holderness smiled in somewhat superior fashion.
"Can't say that I have much faith in that spy talk," he declared. "No doubt there was any quantity of espionage before the war, but it's pretty well weeded out now. I say, how good civilisation is!" he went on, his eyes dwelling lovingly on the interior of the restaurant. "Tophole, isn't it, Lutchester--these smart girls, with their furs and violets and perfumes, the little note of music in the distance, the cheerful clatter of plates, the smiling faces of the waiters, and the undercurrent of pleasant voices. Don't laugh at me, please, Miss Van Teyl. I've three weeks more of it, by George--perhaps more. I don't go up before my Board till Thursday fortnight. Dash it, I wish Sandy would hurry up!"
"You never told me how you got your wound," Pamela observed, as the conversation flagged for a moment.
"Can't even remember," was the careless reply. "We were all scrapping away as hard as we could one afternoon, and nearly a dozen of us got the knock, all at the same time. It's quite all right now, though, except for the stiffness. It was the gas did me in.... What a fellow Sandy is! You people must be starving."
They waited for another five minutes. Then Holderness limped towards the stairs with a little imprecation. Lutchester stopped him.
"Don't you go, Holderness," he begged. "I'll find him and bring him down by the scruff of the neck."
He strode up the stairs on a mission which ended in unexpected failure. Presently he returned, a slight frown upon his forehead.
"I am awfully sorry," he announced, "but I can't find him anywhere. I left him washing his hands, and he said he'd be down in a moment. Are you quite sure that we haven't missed him?"
"There hasn't been a sign of him," Molly declared promptly. "I am so hungry that my eyes have been glued upon the staircase all the time."
Pamela, who had slipped away a few moments before, rejoined them with a little expression of surprise.
"Isn't Captain Graham here yet?" she asked incredulously.
"Not a sign of him," Holderness replied. "Queer set out, isn't it? We won't wait a moment longer. Take my sister and Miss Van Teyl in, will you?" he went on, laying his hand on Lutchester's shoulder. "Ferrani will look after you. I'll follow directly."
The chief maitre d'hotel advanced to meet them with a gesture of invitation, and led them to a table arranged for five. The restaurant was crowded, and the coloured band, from the space against the wall on their left, was playing a lively one-step. Ferrani was 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