The Pawns Count | Page 4

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 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