Courlander glanced at him curiously. They were passing the Carlton and he drew his arm through Lavendale's.
'Just one cocktail,' he suggested.
Lavendale hesitated for a moment, inspired by an instinctive dislike of his companion. Policy, however, intervened. He accepted the invitation and followed Courlander into the smoke-room. They found two easy-chairs and the latter gave the order.
'I was talking about the boss,' he went on. 'There are others besides you who have misunderstood him some, but they'll learn the truth before the war's over.'
'When is Mr. Kessner returning to America?' Lavendale asked.
'As soon as he can find a safe steamer,' Courlander replied. 'He is a trifle nervous about the Atlantic. Say, that tastes good!'
Mr. Courlander leaned back and sipped his cocktail. Lavendale, with a word of excuse, rose to his feet and strolled across the room to speak to an acquaintance. He returned in less than a minute. Mr. Courlander was leaning back in his chair, American from tip to toe. He wore a dark grey suit of some smooth material. His square-toed boots, the little flag in his buttonhole, his prim tie, his air of genial confidence, were all eloquently and convincingly typical of his nationality. Lavendale was followed by a waiter bearing two more glasses upon a tray.
'Try my sort,' he invited.
Mr. Courlander glanced at Lavendale's glass, which was still three-quarters full.
'You haven't finished your first one yet,' he remarked.