“Are you Mr. Dion Leith?”
Dion, startled, was about to say “No” with determined hostility when he remembered Mrs. Clarke. He had come here; he was, he supposed, going to stay here for some days at least; of course he must face things.
“Yes,” he said gruffly.
In an easy, agreeable manner the stranger explained that he was Cyril Vane, second secretary of the British Embassy, and a friend of Mrs. Clarke’s, and that he had come down at her request to meet Dion, and to tell him that there was a charming room reserved for him at the Belgrad Hotel.
“I’ll walk up with you if you like,” he added, in a casual voice. “It’s no distance. That your luggage?”
He put it in the charge of a porter from the hotel.
“I’m over at Therapia just now. The Ambassador hopes to see you. He’s a delightful fellow.”
He talked pleasantly, and looked remarkably unobservant till they reached the hotel, where he parted from Dion.
“I dare say I shall see you soon. Very glad to do anything I can for you. Mrs. Clarke lies at the Villa Hafiz. Any one can tell you where it is.”
He walked coolly away in the sun, looking like an immense fair baby in his thin, light-colored clothes.