"Come along then," I remarked, and, turning the corner into Piccadilly, I led the way along the crowded pavement until we reached the establishment in question.
It was a pleasant, quiet place, panelled in brown oak, and except for a solitary couple near the door we appeared to be the only customers. We walked across to the far corner and seated ourselves at one of the empty tables.
"What shall I order?" I asked, as a tall, flaxen-haired lady advanced with dignity from behind the counter.
Christine laid down the menu which I had handed her. "I don't want anything except a cup of black coffee," she said. "I have just had lunch."
"So have I," I rejoined, "and a jolly good one it was too."
I announced our simple needs to the waitress, who returned in a few minutes with the desired refreshment, and set it down in front of my companion. I could not help noticing the gleam of reluctant admiration with which she took in every detail of Christine's appearance.
The latter filled up one of the two little cups and passed it across to me.
"Mr. Dryden," she began in a low voice, "I want you if you will to tell me exactly what has happened with regard to your uncle's property. I know it must sound an extraordinary question, but I am only asking it in what I believe to be your own interests."
"Of course I'll tell you," I said. "It's the one thing I've been longing to do for the last two days."
I took a sip of the coffee and sat back in my chair.