“I think you’ve taken my chair, sir.”
Gaymer glanced up for a moment and then turned to his study of the wine-list.
“I don’t like Jews,” he observed.
“This lady... I had to see about a ticket for her—”
“I don’t like Jews,” Gaymer repeated. “Waiter! Where the devil’s our waiter gone to? Here, a bottle of forty-three. And ice it properly first.” Then he looked up again at the man whose chair he had taken. “I’ve spoken about this before. Will you go away?”
The man stared at him for a moment, flushed and turned to the girl.
“We’ll find another table, Gracie,” he said with a tremble in his voice.
“Gracie’s dining with me,” said Gaymer. “She’s much too good for you. If you go away at once, there need be no unpleasantness. If you persist in butting in where you’re not wanted...” He paused to recollect his encounter with the errand-boy in Piccadilly, the fruitless hours of patrol in Ryder Street... “I shall send you to Abraham’s bosom at such a pace that you’ll come out the other side.”
The young Jew hesitated and looked appealingly at the girl.
“I don’t want a scene—” he began.