She was more bewildered than ever. “What is his name?” she asked.
“Here it is. The director wrote it for me, so that I may learn how to pronounce it.”
Stampa produced a scrap of paper, and Helen read, “Mr. Charles K. Spencer.”
“Are you quite certain he mentioned me?” she repeated.
“Can I be mistaken, fräulein. I know, because I studied the labels on your boxes. Mees Hélène Weenton—so? And did he not rate me about the accident?”
“Well, wonders will never cease,” she vowed; and indeed they were only just beginning in her life, which shows how blind to excellent material wonders can be.
At luncheon she summoned the head waiter. “Is there a Mr. Charles K. Spencer staying in the hotel?” she asked.
“Yes, madam.”
“Will you please tell me if he is in the room?”
The head waiter turned. Spencer was studying the menu. “Yes, madam. There he is, sitting alone, at the second table from the window.”