"I should say, without a doubt," Kendricks declared, "that he was at
present working hard for the safety and welfare of the British Empire.
If you've suddenly recognized the man, I'll tell you who the girl is.
She's a manicurist at the Milan."
Julien looked round and watched them for a moment curiously. Again he noticed that his interest in the young man was at least reciprocated.
"The fellow has recognized me, of course," he said. "You know, Kendricks, I remember two or three years ago a most amazing item of news was brought to us—one that made a real difference, too—through a manicurist."
"Shouldn't be a bit surprised," Kendricks replied.
"Things drop out in the most unexpected places, as you'd find out if you'd been a journalist."
"She was sent for into the room of some princess—at Claridge's, I think it was, or one of the west-end hotels—and while she was there a man came from one of the inner rooms and said a few words in Russian. The girl had been in St. Petersburg and understood. It made quite a difference. I remember the story."
"Might have been the same man and the same manicurist," Kendricks remarked.
Julien shook his head.
"There was trouble about the manicurist," he said, "and she had to leave the country. She's in South Africa now."
"I can't say that I like the appearance of the fellow," Kendricks declared. "Don't funk the soup, Julien—it's better than it looks. He's a slimy-looking sort of chap. I have a theory that the modern sort of Secret Service agent ought to be a person like myself—breezy and obvious. Julien, if that girl doesn't stop gazing at you sideways, you'll be in trouble with your late employee."