The Baron leaned forward in his chair.
"Forgive me, Mr. Wrayson," he said, "but there is a—lady at your right who seems anxious to attract your attention. We are none of us anxious to advertise our presence here. Is she, by any chance, a friend of yours?"
Wrayson looked quickly round. He understood at once the Baron's slight pause. The ladies of the French half-world are skilled enough, when necessary, in concealing their profession: their English sister, if she attempts it at all, attempts a hopeless task. Over-powdered, over-rouged, with hair at least two shades nearer copper coloured than last time he had seen her, badly but showily dressed, it was his friend from the Alhambra whose welcoming smile Wrayson received with a thrill of interest. She was seated at a small table with a slightly less repulsive edition of herself, and her smile changed at once into a gesture of invitation. Wrayson rose to his feet almost eagerly.
"This is a coincidence," he said under his breath. "She, too, holds a hand in the game!"
CHAPTER XXXIII
A HAND IN THE GAME
The diners at the Hotel Splendide were a little surprised to see the tall, distinguished-looking Englishman leave his seat and accost with quiet deference the elder of the two women, whose entrance a few minutes before had occasioned a good many not very flattering comments. The lady who called herself Blanche meant to make the most of her opportunity.
"Fancy meeting you here," she remarked. "Flo, this is a friend of mine. Mrs. Harrigod! Gentleman's name doesn't matter, does it?" she added, laughing.
Wrayson bowed, and murmured something inaudible. Blanche's friend regarded him with unconcealed and flattering approval.
"Over here for a little flutter, I suppose?" she remarked. "It is so hot in town we had to get away somewhere. Are you alone with your friends?"
"Quite alone," Wrayson answered. "We are only staying for a day or two."