Norgate shook his head slightly and passed on. Selingman leaned a little forward, watching his departing figure. The buoyant good-nature seemed to have faded out of his face.
"If you could get that young man to talk, now, Helda," he muttered, "it would be an achievement."
She glanced after him, "To me," she declared, "he looks one of the difficult sort."
"He is an Englishman with a grievance," Selingman continued. "If the grievance cuts deep enough, he may—But we gossip."
"The other was a navy man," the girl remarked. "His name is Baring."
Selingman nodded.
"You need not bother about him," he said. "If it is possible for him to be of use, that is arranged for in another quarter. So! Let us finish our wine and separate. That letter shall surely come. Have no fear."
Selingman strolled away, a few minutes later. Baring had returned to Mrs. Paston Benedek, and Norgate had resumed his place in the box. Selingman, with a gold-topped cane under his arm, a fresh cigar between his lips, and a broad smile of good-fellowship upon his face, strolled down one of the wings of the Promenade. Suddenly he came to a standstill. In the box opposite to him, Norgate and Hebblethwaite were seated side by side. Selingman regarded them for a moment steadfastly.
"A friend of Hebblethwaite's!" he muttered. "Hebblethwaite—the one man whom Berlin doubts!"
He withdrew a little into the shadows, his eyes fixed upon the box. A little way off, in the stalls, Mrs. Paston Benedek was whispering to Baring. Further back in the Promenade, Helda was entertaining a little party of friends. Selingman's eyes remained fixed upon Norgate.