It was luncheon time, and the foyer was crowded with people waiting for each other whilst they passed the time of day with someone else. There were many women with eager eyes and low heels. Dwight-Rankin said they were American. There were many women with good complexions and large feet. Dwight-Rankin said they were English. There was a young man who looked like a pretty girl, except that his hair was long. Dwight-Rankin said he was known as the Venus de Marlow and that his friends thought him too marvellous. Pacing up and down was a French gentleman with drooping ginger moustachios, a gardenia and a dog. Dwight-Rankin said that he wore stays and that the dog was called “Hélöise and Abélard,” and when I asked him how one dog came to be called “Hélöise and Abélard” Dwight-Rankin said severely that even a dog must be called something.
“The man who owns him, her, it or them,” said Dwight-Rankin, “is the Marquis des Beaux-Aces. He married a very rich American, but she turned out to be a girl of strong character and instead of letting him spend her money she spent all his and then divorced him for being incompetent. He has never been the same man since, but he manages to make an honest living by selling fancy needlework to Argentine polo-players. But you will hear more of him when I tell you of the strange affair of Mrs. Amp and Lady Surplice—of the late Mrs. Amp,” said Dwight-Rankin gloomily, “and the late Lady Surplice. A great pity. By the way, are you lunching with anyone?”
I said: “No, but——”
“That’s all right,” said Dwight-Rankin; “I will lunch with you. I am supposed to be lunching with some people, but I am so short-sighted that I can’t see them. If you should remark two beautiful women looking at me with more than usual interest, just don’t take any notice. This short-sightedness of mine is developing into a nuisance. The other day I was having a clean-up at the club and when I came to wipe my face I found it was quite dry for the simple reason that I had been washing the face of the man next to me.”
I said: “In the meanwhile, shall we——”
“This is on me,” said Dwight-Rankin. “Waiter, two Martinis, please.”
“Dry,” I said.
“That’s all right,” said Dwight-Rankin. “They always wipe them for me first.”
II
The death of Mrs. Amp, said Dwight-Rankin, was the sensation of Paris in the spring of the year 1924. Who Mr. Amp was, it appeared, no one knew for certain. But it was said that he had fallen in love with a photograph of an English gentlewoman in Arab costume, had plunged into the desert to commune with his passion and had been kidnapped by a sheikess in plus-fours who had a fancy for bald Americans with bulging eyes. However....