As we drove away, I saw the white face of the loafer, who had apparently recovered his coin, staring after us out of the lamplight.
Northcote must have guessed that I had noticed his agitation, for he laughed in a rather forced manner. "I dislike those fellows," he said. "It's foolish, of course,—one ought to pity the poor devils,—but somehow or other I can't stand their coming anywhere near me."
His words were easy and natural enough, but they did not convince me in the least. I have seen too many men in danger of their lives to mistake the symptoms.
However, the matter being essentially his business and not mine, I refrained from offering any comments. Indeed, I thought it more tactful to change the conversation.
"I'm afraid I'm hardly dressed for the Milan," I said. "I don't know whether it matters."
He shrugged his shoulders. "We will have a private room in any case," he replied. "It is more comfortable."
He spoke as though the Milan were some sort of Soho pot-house!
I was just thinking what a pity it was I had wasted such an excellent appetite on Parelli's when the cab turned the corner into the Strand. Putting his head out of the window, Northcote gave some instructions to the driver, which I was unable to catch. Their nature, however, was obvious a moment later, for, turning to the right just before we reached the flaring courtyard of the famous restaurant, the man drew up at a small side entrance.
We got out, and Northcote, after paying the fare, led the way into the hall, where a bland and very respectful head waiter came forward to meet us.
"I want a private room, and a little light supper of some kind," said Northcote.