“Which one?”
“Spanish girls.”
We dined in great spirits that evening, in the big scarlet and gold restaurant; and in rich, red Marqués de Riscal Dick drank confusion to the Duque de Carmona. The Cherub had told us where Carmona's flat was situated, saying that his car would perhaps be kept under the same roof with his carriage and the state coach.
[pg 126] The company was interesting to watch. Leoncavallo had as a guest the famous ex-bull-fighter Mazzantini; a Russian prince entertained several beauties of the Opera; and there were two or three politicians greatly in the public eye. We were hungry; the dinner was good; there was much to talk over; and all seemed to be going well.
But about half-past ten, when Pilar had gone, and the Cherub was having a “yarn” and a cigar in the sitting-room of our suite; Ropes appeared, looking serious.
“Something bad has happened, sir; and I blame myself,” said he.
“Something wrong with the car,” I asked quickly.
“Something out of the car, sir,” he amended. “The main shaft of the change-speed gear.”
“Impossible!” said I. “A car can't go along dropping her gearing, as a woman drops her purse!”
“No, sir. But she can, so to speak, have her pocket picked. After all that's come and gone, I ought to have kept my eyes open.”