“Oh, how do you do,” said the countess, and then Selden saw that the man with whom she was shaking hands was John Halsey, who had been Paris correspondent of the London Journal from time immemorial. “Do you know Mr. Selden, Mr. Halsey?”
“Selden?” echoed Halsey, who up to that moment had not looked at him. “Oh, hello, Selden. I thought you were somewhere in the Balkans.”
He did not offer to shake hands and there was something faintly hostile in his air.
“No, I’m here,” said Selden briefly, wondering if it could be possible that Halsey was jealous, or if it was just his British manner.
But Halsey had already turned back to the countess.
“I have been looking for you everywhere,” he said. “I got in just a few minutes ago and they told me at the hotel that you had gone out. I want you to come to lunch with me. We must have a talk.”
There was something in his air at the same time threatening and cringing—like a tiger conscious of his strength, but chilled to the bone at sight of the trainer’s whip.
“I am sorry,” said the countess, “but I have an engagement.”
“Who with?”
“Mr. Selden and I are going to lunch at La Turbie,” she explained sweetly, but there was a dangerous gleam in her eye.