"Seen Paulette?" he asked.
"No." The "no" of a man who is not to be drawn into conversation.
"Pauly's a bit of all right," affirmed the Earl, undeterred. "I don't pretend to be up to all the patter, but—wot ho!"
Speechlessly Conrad hoped the lady wouldn't come back yet.
"Three hundred a week she refused for a return engagement at the Empire—told me so herself to-night. That's Pauly! Got the hump. What's three hundred to Pauly? I told 'em how she'd catch on before she went over. Don't I know?" He winked profoundly. "Look here, you'll see an artist in October at the Syndicate halls, that's—wot ho! She's going to knock 'em. Between ourselves she's got some new 'business,' that—well, it's great! Never been tried. I saw her when she was doing the last turn at the South London. I said to George, 'Cocky, that's a winner!' Robey couldn't see it. I saw it; I can put my finger on the talent every time. She's going to make Marie sit up, my boy—she's another Marie Lloyd. Don't I know? I've got the judgment. I can spot 'em with one peeper! ... Isn't there a waiter in this damned hotel? I could do with a tiddley. Where's a bell?"
"It's no use ringing," said Conrad, "nobody ever comes. It wants someone to go in and stir them up."
But now Mrs. Adaile reappeared.
"Oh!" she murmured. And then, "I've dropped a bracelet somewhere; I came down to look for it. Good evening, Lord Armoury."
"A bracelet?" echoed Conrad with concern.
"Good evening, Mrs. Adaile—a bracelet? Crumbs!" said Armoury.