"Apparently. But don't you think we'd better go elsewhere?"
"My dear young man," said Florence with mock loftiness, "Olga Perigoff has written me down as a simple young fool, and that is why, sooner or later, I'm going to put the shoe on the other foot. You and Jones have coddled me long enough. Inasmuch as I am the stake they are playing for, I intend to have something more than a speaking part in the play."
"All right; you're the admiral," he said with pretended lightness.
So the two of them joined their subtle enemy, conscious of a tingle of zest as they did so. On her part, the countess was always suspicious of this sleepy-eyed reporter. She never could tell how much he knew. But of Florence she was reasonably certain; and so long as she could fool the pretty infant the suspicions of the reporter were a negligible quantity. She greeted them effusively and offered them chairs. For half an hour they sat there, chatting inanities, all the while each mind was busy with deeper concerns.
When the man in search of Florence eventually arrived and asked the manager of the garden if he knew Miss Hargreave by sight the manager pointed toward the box. The man wound his way in and out of the idlers and by the time he reached the box Jim and Florence had made their departure. The man bowed, approached, and asked the countess if she was Miss Hargreave. For a moment Olga suspected a trap. Then it appealed to her mind that if there was no trap it might be well to pose as Florence, if only to learn what the outcome might be.
"Yes. What is wanted?" she asked.
The man took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Olga, saying: "Give this to your father. He knows how to read it."
"GIVE THIS TO YOUR FATHER. HE KNOWS HOW TO READ IT"