“Ah, Durant! Let me introduce you to Mr. Larson of Toledo—Mr. Durant. What about a rubber, if your packing’s done?”
“Glad.” Durant bowed to the Baronne, and shook hands with Larson, in whose mild blue eyes rested that same curious, scrutinizing expression. Then and later his manner toward Durant was almost deferential, though as a rule his air was brusque enough. That he was quite captivated by the Baronne, too, was soon evident.
There was no opportunity for private conversation until, a few rubbers ended, Helen departed under pretense of having to pack. Larson also rose, and shook hands with Durant.
“If you’re alone,” he said, “we might go to London together in the morning.”
“I’ll be glad,” said Durant, finding himself liking the old man. “See you at the pier, eh?”
So they parted. Left alone, Durant met the gaze of Makoff with inquiring eyes.
“Well? What’s the game?”
The bold, aggressive regard of the Russian dwelt upon him for an instant, and in those dark depths Durant read startling, baffling things.
“Tell you later,” said Makoff calmly, with a gesture at the room. “Get up to London with him, ask him to visit you for a day or so—until Monday, say. The week-end. Tell him your car will meet the train.”
“My car? But I haven’t any!”