"Did you recognise the man with whom he was playing?" Pamela inquired.
"Can't say that I did. His face seems familiar, too."
"Go and see if you can find out his name," Pamela begged. "It isn't ordinary curiosity. I really want to know."
"That's easy enough," Van Teyl replied, rising from his place. "And
I'll order tea at the same time."
Pamela leaned a little further back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to be fixed upon the pleasant prospect of wooded slopes and green, upward-stretching sward. As a matter of fact, she saw only two faces— Fischer's and Lutchester's. Her chief impulse in life for the immediate present seemed to have resolved itself into a fierce, almost a passionate curiosity. It was the riddle of those two brains which she was so anxious to solve. … Fischer, the cold, subtle intriguer, with schemes at the back of his mind which she knew quite well that, even in the moment of his weakness, he intended to keep to himself; and Lutchester, with his almost cynical devotion to pleasure, yet with his unaccountable habit of suggesting a strength and qualities to which he neither laid nor established any claim. Of the two men it was Lutchester who piqued her, with whom she would have found more pleasure in the battle of wits. She found herself alternately furious and puzzled with him, yet her uneasiness concerning him possessed more disquieting, more fascinating possibilities than any of the emotions inspired by the other man.
Van Teyl returned to her presently, a little impressed.
"Thought I knew that chap's face," he observed. "It's Eli Hamblin—
Senator Hamblin, you know."
"A friend and confidant of the President," she murmured. "A Westerner, too. I wonder what he's doing here … Jimmy!"
"Hallo, Sis?"
"You've just got to be a dear," Pamela begged. "Go to the caddy master, or professional, or some one, and find out whether Mr. Lutchester met him here by accident or whether they arrived together."