The conceit was absurd, of course. Chauffeurs do not swagger through the world dressing for dinner each night and distributing gold in their leisure moments. But Smith’s bump of inquisitiveness was well developed, as the phrenologists say, and he was already impressed by the fact that no firm could afford to send out for hire a car like Medenham’s.
“Funny thing,” he said at last. “I seem to have met you somewhere or other. Who do you work for?”
“Myself.”
Medenham caught the note of bewilderment, and was warned. He straightened himself with a smile, though it cost him an effort to look cheerful.
“Have a cigarette?” he said.
“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.” Then, after a pause, and some puffing and tasting: “Sorry, old man, but this baccy ain’t my sort. It tastes queer. What is it? Flor de Cabbagio? Here, take one of mine!”
Medenham, in chastened mood, accepted a “five a penny” cigarette, and saw Smith throw away the exquisite brand that Sevastopolo, of Bond Street, supplied to those customers only who knew the price paid by connoisseurs for the leaf grown on one small hillside above the sun-steeped bay of Salonika.
“Yes,” he agreed, bravely poisoning the helpless atmosphere, “this is better suited to the occasion.”
“A bit of all right, eh? I can’t stand the Count’s cigarettes eether—French rubbish, you know. An’ the money they run into—well, there!”