"If you can see him, he can see you, Susan," I said severely. "Whoever he is, he can be no gentleman to follow you like this. Eat your cutlet, and keep your eyes on your plate. And don't dawdle. I want to go upstairs again as quick as we can."
For one nasty moment, Susan hung on the very brink of rebellion. But habit or coquetry, or self-interest or pure obedience, or genuine modesty, prevailed; and she answered with perfect meekness:
"Very well, Miss, I'm ready now."
It spoilt my lunch; but I got up and we both went out. I asked for coffee and the French time-table to be brought into the drawing-room, where he wasn't likely to come. There, I sat down to work out plans in quiet.
But the quiet didn't last. Within five minutes, his large voice broke out angrily in the hall. Susan shivered on the lounge beside me. His clamour was like the vicious baying of an extra-sized wolf newly cheated of a nice young lamb.
"Oh, Miss!" moaned Susan, as white as a sheet. "He's coming in here! Whatever shall I do?"
"Sit still," I snapped. "Hold your tongue. Let us listen."
Straining my ears, I discerned that the noise was a composite one, and that the three chief contributors were the Brute in Grey, the waiter, and some third party--probably the manager.
"It's a [----] swindle!" roared the Grey One. (The blank stands for something far worse than "damned.")
"I told the gentleman it was à la carte," put in the waiter.