At last, it seemed an age to Harriet, every one had been served. The Spanish omelette, a martyr to its own perfection was no more. Robert Baxter, after paying the highest compliment possible for a mere man to pay to a Spanish omelette, rose from the table and, deputing the countess to act with Mrs. Merle in the matter of engaging servants, excused himself on the plea of letters that must catch the afternoon post.
A moment later Horatio, steeling himself against Harriet's imploring glance and the appeal of his untouched plate, left the room. As one on the brink of a journey, the thought of food repelled him. Also he remembered that Martin Luther had not breakfasted. He would come back later and help Harriet clear away the things.
Kate had lighted a cigarette and was leaning back in her chair watching the sinuous veil dance of the dissolving vapor. Lionel's whole being was concentrated on the ordeal by fire of a perfecto bequeathed to him by the departing Robert.
"By Jove! Where's Mr. Merle?" he asked.
The countess, immediately alert, gave a quick glance round the table. "Go after him, Lionel. He's had nothing to eat!" she cried.
Lionel pushed back his chair and strode out of the room. Some minutes passed before he returned, entering by the French window from the conservatory. He looked flustered.
"I can't find him anywhere," he said quickly, in answer to exclamations from Harriet and Kate. "I've looked all over the beastly house and I'm blest if I know where he can have got to."
"He must have gone out," suggested the countess.
"That's the first thing I thought of. He hadn't two minutes' start of me, and I ran all round the house."
"Did you go to the lodge?" queried Harriet.