I pointed him out to Brentin, who immediately jumped up, crossed the road, and greeted him with effusion. Then he brought him over and introduced him to our party, among whom, luckily enough, was seated Mr. Van Ginkel.
Now I don’t want to say anything uncivil in print about a gentleman who rendered us later a service so undeniable, and, indeed, priceless; but I cannot help observing that Van Ginkel, on the whole, was one of the dreariest personalities I ever came in touch with.
He was about Brentin’s age, fifty-four or so, but he appeared years older; his hair and beard were almost white, and his face was so lined, the flesh appeared folded, almost like linen. He had some digestive troubles that kept him to a milk diet, and he would sit in entire silence looking straight ahead of him, searching, as it were, for the point of time when he should be able to eat meat once more.
Brentin had boarded the Saratoga early that morning on its return, and given a full account of our scheme and its difficulties. Van Ginkel had listened in complete silence; and when Brentin had told him of Bailey Thompson, and our earnest desire to get him out of the way, ending by asking him to be so friendly as to take him on board and keep him there till we had finished, Van Ginkel had just remarked, “Why, certainly!” and relapsed into silence again.
“He has very much altered,” Brentin had whispered, after presenting me; when Van Ginkel shook me by the hand, said “Mr. Vincent Blacker,” in the American manner, and was further entirely dumb. “He was the liveliest freshman of my class and the terror of the Boston young ladies, especially when he was full. As, of course, you know from his name, he is one of the oldest families of Noo York State.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and he looks it.”
Bailey Thompson sat with us for some little time outside the “Café de Paris,” and made himself uncommonly agreeable, according to his Scotland Yard lights. He told us, the hypocrite, he usually came to Monte Carlo at this time of the year, and usually stayed at the “Monte Carlo Hotel,” just where the road begins to descend to the Condamine, once Madame Blanc’s villa.
Where were we? Oh! some of us were at the “Monopôle” and some on board the yacht. Really? Why, the “Monopôle” was the hotel he had recommended us, wasn’t it? He hoped we found it fairly quiet and comfortable, and not too dear, did the arch-hypocrite!
When my sister rose to go back to the rooms and look after Miss Rybot, Van Ginkel roused himself to ask her to lunch with him the next day, Friday, on board the Saratoga, and go for a sail afterwards to Bordighera. He managed the affair like an artist, for he didn’t immediately include Bailey Thompson in the invitation, as though he knew too little of him just for the present. It was not till later, as we strolled down to the Condamine—he, Thompson, Brentin, and I—that he asked us to come on board the yacht and see over it, and not till finally as we were leaving that (as though reminding himself he must not be impolite) he begged the detective to be of the party, if he had no other engagement of the kind.
Thompson—simple soul!—was enchanted to accept, and, as we went back on shore in the boat, went off into raptures at the beauty of the yacht and the politeness of the owner in asking him on so short an acquaintance.