"Delicious!" Kendricks murmured. "Are these your rooms?"
Julien nodded and turned on the electric light.
"Not palatial, as you see, but comfortable and, I flatter myself, typically French. Don't you love the red plush and the gilt mirror? Of course, one doesn't sit upon the chairs or look into the mirror, but they at least remind you of the country you're in."
Kendricks threw open the window. The hum of the city came floating into the room. They drew up easy-chairs.
"Whiskey and soda at your side," Julien pointed out. "You can smoke your filthy pipe to your heart's content. I won't even insult you by offering you a cigar. Now go ahead."
Kendricks lit his pipe and smoked solemnly.
"Your remarks," he declared, "are actuated by jealousy. You haven't the stomach for a man's smoke. Now listen. There's the very devil of a mischief abroad and Falkenberg's at the bottom of it. Do you know what he's doing?"
"I know nothing."
"You remember the night that we were up at the Rat Mort? He was talking with a dirty-looking man in a red tie and pince-nez."
"I remember it quite well," Julien admitted.