As the girl still shook her head, French turned back into the lounge.
“Excuse me,” he addressed the company generally, “but might I ask if any of you gentlemen speak English? I can’t make this young lady understand.”
The little ruse succeeded. The man resembling Vanderkemp rose.
“I speak English,” he answered. “What is it you want?”
“Lunch,” French returned, “and to know if it will soon be ready.”
“I can answer that for you,” the other declared, after he had explained the situation to the girl. “Lunch will be ready in exactly five minutes, and visitors are usually welcome.”
“Thank you.” French spoke in a leisurely, conversational way. “I am staying at the Orient, where one or two of them speak English, but business brought me to this part of the town, and I did not want to go all that way back to lunch. A confounded nuisance this language business! It makes you feel pretty helpless when you want to talk to people.”
“That’s true,” the stranger admitted. “In most of the larger hotels they speak French and English, but at practically none of the smaller. In this one, for example, one waiter has a few words of French only. No English or Italian or German. Some of the staff don’t even speak Spanish.”
French was interested in spite of the larger question which was occupying his mind.
“Not Spanish?” he repeated. “How do you mean? What do they speak?”