Simon was a very rich young man, but it was an interesting point in his psychology that he lived in one small room at his club, and did not own a car. The taxi-driver, however, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his tip, although he had had a long and chilly wait outside Jack Straw’s Castle, which his fare had elected to visit on his way from Piccadilly.
The house was one of those long, low, modern mansions standing back from the road in its own grounds. The short gravel drive and the roadway on each side were lined with private cars of all makes and sizes; the windows of the house were a blaze of light; it was evident that a party was in progress.
Having greeted the maid at the door as an old friend, and divested himself of his silk scarf, white kid gloves, stick, and shining topper — Simon was soon in conversation with his hostess.
“Good party tonight, Miriam?” he asked her in his jerky way, with a wide smile.
“I hope so, Simon dear,” she replied a little nervously. “I’ve taken an awful lot of trouble — but you never know what people will like — do you?”
“Of course it will be a good party, Miriam,” he encouraged her. “Your parties always are good parties! Anyone special coming?”
“We’ve got Gian Capello — he’s promised to play, and Madame Maliperi is going to sing; it’s a great help having Alec Wolff too, he’s really very clever at the piano; Jacob says he’ll go a long way — and knowing him so well I can get him to play at any time.”
“Of course you can — Alec’s a nice boy.”
“I tell you who I have got here —” she went on hurriedly. “Madame Karkoff — you know, Valeria Petrovna Karkoff — from the Moscow Arts Theatre; she’s over here on a visit with Kommissar Leshkin. Jacob met them at the film studios at Elstree last week.”
Simon’s quick eyes flickered about the wide hall; with sudden interest he asked: “Does she — er — speak English?”