But Clementina, when they had risen to leave the tea-room, found that she had counted without her hosts, who had arranged the crowded tables in such a manner that in order to reach the exit door, she and her charges had to pass immediately behind Huckaby, who sat facing Quixtus. Chance had also caused a temporary blocking of the gangway a little further on. The trio came to a compulsory standstill beside the quartette. Tommy stretched out a frank hand.
“Hullo, Uncle Ephraim! What are you doing here?”
Quixtus rose and took the proffered hand, but he did not answer the indiscreet question.
“How d’ye do, Tommy? I hope I see you well.” Then he became conscious of Clementina, whom he greeted with stiff courtesy.
“I must present you to Miss Etta Concannon,” said Tommy. “This is my uncle, Dr. Quixtus. We’ve been motoring all over France with Clementina. Had a gorgeous time.”
Again Clementina looked at the woman with the nun’s face and the alluring eyes, and this time the woman looked at Clementina. Between the two pairs of eyes was a second’s invisible rapier play. Mrs. Fontaine broke into a laugh.
“Won’t you introduce me, Dr. Quixtus?” And then, the introductions being effected—“I hope you’re staying a long while in Paris.”
“We leave to-morrow,” snapped Clementina. “And you?” she asked, turning to Quixtus.
He made a vague gesture. A week’s Seine water had flowed beneath the bridges since he had first walked up the Rue de la Paix with Mrs. Fontaine, and that week had been full of interest, morbid and otherwise. Not only did he hug himself in his imaginary wrap of diabolical wickedness, but also—if he could admit the truth—he was enjoying himself enormously in the most blameless fashion. Mrs. Fontaine showing no particular desire to leave Paris, he had adjourned his own departure sine die.
“I am remaining some time yet,” he replied.