“I have not yet made up my mind,” he said. “I happen to know that he has been laying his plans for weeks to get here, frequenting Soto's and other restaurants, and scraping acquaintances with some of my friends. The Duke of Tadchester brought him—won a few hundreds from him at baccarat, I suppose. His grace will never again find these doors open to him.”
Francis' attention had wandered. He was gazing fixedly at the man whom Sir Timothy had pointed out.
“You still do not fully recognise our friend,” the latter observed carelessly. “He calls himself Manuel Loito, and he professes to be a Cuban. His real name I understood, when you introduced us, to be Shopland.”
“Great heavens, so it is!” Francis exclaimed.
“Let us leave him to his precarious pleasures,” Sir Timothy suggested. “I am free for a few moments. We will wander round together.”
They found Lady Cynthia and Wilmore, and looked in at the supper-room, where people were waiting now for tables, a babel of sound and gaiety. The grounds and winter-gardens were crowded. Their guide led the way to a large apartment on the other side of the hall, from which the sound of music was proceeding.
“My theatre,” he said. “I wonder what is going on.”
They passed inside. There was a small stage with steps leading down to the floor, easy-chairs and round tables everywhere, and waiters serving refreshments. A girl was dancing. Sir Timothy watched her approvingly.
“Nadia Ellistoff,” he told them. “She was in the last Russian ballet, and she is waiting now for the rest of the company to start again at Covent Garden. You see, it is Metzger who plays there. They improvise. Rather a wonderful performance, I think.”
They watched her breathlessly, a spirit in grey tulle, with great black eyes now and then half closed.