"Will anyone come in and disturb us if I help you to make the table a little more presentable?" she asked.
"I'm afraid they will," Parkson answered. "But I managed to choose a time when only one officer is likely to come in."
"Is he old and grumpy, or young and nice-looking like you?" Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him with raillery in her fine eyes. She was helping herself to marmalade, and was making the best of the thickness of the bread and butter, and the strong tea Parkson had poured out for her.
"Oh, he's a dashed sight better looking than I am," admitted Parkson modestly; "his name is Sinclair, an old regular officer."
"I am sure I shall not like him," said Mrs. Beecher Monmouth.
It was fully a quarter of an hour before Sinclair made his appearance, and then the tea was nearly cold. He came in, and was introduced to Mrs. Beecher Monmouth. Looking at his lean, handsome face and audacious eyes she could have sworn that she had seen him somewhere before. As a matter of fact, his appearance was vaguely familiar to her because one of Sinclair's earlier duties that year had been to watch her at little dinner parties at the Savoy, Carlton and Ritz Hotels.
"I think we have met before," probed Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, furrowing her brows, and fixing her gaze on Sinclair's face.
"I am afraid I have not had that pleasure," replied Sinclair, who could act the part of smiling fatuity to perfection. He was thinking how well she looked in her widow's weeds, and how extraordinary cheerful was her manner, considering the tragedy that had recently befallen her.
Parkson and Mrs. Beecher Monmouth soon left the mess-room, and immediately they were gone Sinclair rose from the table, hurried to his room, and wrote a code telegram to Dacent Smith.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth is here. What action shall I take?