No one seemed to know. The waiter paused with a tray full of glasses.
'He's staying in the hotel—arrived yesterday from America, sir,' he announced. 'I don't know his name, but I think he's a little queer in his head.'
The young man set down his glass upon the counter.
'A person,' he remarked, 'who can laugh at such a ghastly thing, must be either very queer in his head indeed, or——'
'Or what, Ambrose?' his companion asked.
'I don't know,' the other replied thoughtfully. 'Well, au revoir, you fellows! I'm going in to lunch. Sure you won't come with me, Reggie?'
'Sorry, I have to be back in ten minutes,' the other replied. 'See you to-morrow.'
Ambrose Lavendale strolled out of the room, crossed the smoke-room and descended into the restaurant. At a table in a remote corner, seated by himself, the little man who had been guilty of such a breach of good-feeling was studying the menu with a waiter by his side. Lavendale watched him for a moment curiously. Then he turned to speak to one of the maîtres d'hôtel, a short, dark man with a closely-cropped black moustache.
'I shan't want my usual table this morning, Jules,' he announced. 'I am going to sit in that corner.'
He indicated a vacant table close to the little man whom he had been watching. The maîtres d'hôtel bowed and ushered him towards it.