With a cool shrug of his shoulders, the pseudo count returned to a study of his manicured fingers. He’d understood from Hammond that there was little love lost between dashing André Borg and the saturnine Chinese, Cho-San. If that were true, a pose of insulting indifference would be the safest.
In any case, it seemed to be working now. As Don continued to ignore his presence, the big Oriental stood glowering beside the table. Like a huge frog, he seemed to swell with silent rage. Suddenly he beckoned the anxiously hovering headwaiter.
“Another chair, Maurice!” he growled in a heavy bass. “Mademoiselle Lotus seems to be in the company of an idiot. I shall stay to protect her, in case he becomes a worse nuisance. Bring me a chair, quickly!”
As Maurice hurried to obey, Lotus half arose, her hands clasping and unclasping in distress.
“Please, Cho-San!” she choked. “Be patient with André—Count Borg, I mean! Five days ago he received a wound on the head, while carrying out your orders. Since then his mind has not been the same....”
“Evidently not!” grated the Chinese, seating himself in the chair Maurice had brought. “No man in his right mind deliberately insults Cho-San, though your André has come very near to doing so in times past. Well, Borg, have you lost your tongue as well as your reason? You had it at three o’clock this morning when you made this appointment with my ward.”
“So your watchman overheard and told you about that, Cho-San!” drawled the pretended Borg, as Maurice glided away. “I thought he would, but I’m surprised you were interested enough to follow Lotus and me here. Er—by the way, it’s quite true about that head wound I got. My memory has blanked out. It’s only now and then I recall something that’s happened in the past few years. Of course, I know you and Lotus, here; but how and why and where you came into my life I haven’t the faintest idea! Awful nuisance, isn’t it?”
For sixty long seconds, Cho-San stared at “Count Borg’s” handsome, rather bored features. His sloe-black eyes were so wickedly penetrating that Don was glad his disguise didn’t depend on paint or false hair. Even the tiny scar below his eye was genuine. For the rest, Don hoped that he had copied Count Borg’s own voice and manner successfully.
At last Cho-San’s big body relaxed its angry tenseness. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a smoother inflection.
“I would give a great deal to know just what has changed about you, my dear Count,” he remarked. “It may be your mind—in another sense of the word—for certainly you have never dared to insult me publicly before. Your alleged loss of memory is all poppy-cock, of course. It may take time to discover what your new game is, but I shall do it. Meantime, you will take my orders as before, if you know what is good for you!”