“And—er—the Sydney Bamboroughs,” said the Frenchman, as if the name had almost left his memory.
Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the Morning Post. He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, he read aloud:
“‘His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at 4 Craven Gardens, yesterday. Among the guests were the Baron de Chauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and others.’”
Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair.
“So, my dear friend,” he said, “it is probable that you know more about the Sydney Bamboroughs than I do.”
If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it. His was a face eminently calculated to conceal whatever thought or feeling might be passing through his mind. Of an even white complexion—verging on pastiness—he was handsome in a certain statuesque way. His features were always composed and dignified; his hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth and sleek upon his high, narrow brow. His eyes had that dulness which is characteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the habitual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigarettes.
De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with easy nonchalance.
“Not necessarily,” he said, in cold, even tones. “Mrs. Sydney Bamborough does not habitually take into her confidence all who happen to dine at the same table as herself. Your confidential woman is usually a liar.”
Steinmetz was filling his pipe; this man had the evil habit of smoking a wooden pipe after a cigar.
“My very dear De Chauxville,” he said, without lookup, “your epigrams are lost on me. I know most of them. I have heard them before. If you have anything to tell me about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, for Heaven’s sake tell it to me quite plainly. I like plain dishes and unvarnished stories. I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person with a dull palate and a thick head.”