As we three strolled up the hill, Brentin, with the most natural air of trust, at once launched out on the subject of our plan.
“Well, here we are, sir, you see,” he said; “everything is in train. We approach the hour.”
“Here am I, too,” smiled the cool little man. “I told you I should most likely be over.”
“We are real glad to see you.”
“And you really mean it, now you’re on the spot and can measure some of the difficulties for yourselves?”
“So much so that we have decided for Saturday night,” was Brentin’s light and untruthful reply. “We have observed the rooms are at their fullest then.”
“Where are the rest of your party—the other gentlemen I saw at ‘The French Horn?’ ”
“Mr. Hines is gambling, having unfortunately developed tastes in that direction. Mr. Masters is in attendance on a lady friend—”
“The ladies of your party know nothing of your intentions, I presume?” said Thompson.
“Nothing, sir; nothing. For them it is a mere party of pleasure all the time. Then Mr. Forsyth is playing that fool-game, tennis, with his late colonel, behind the “Hôtel de Paris,” and Mr. Parsons is somewhere way off on the Mentone Road, choking himself with dust on ay loaned bicycle.”