He smiled pleasantly, showing extraordinarily white teeth.
"A gentleman and lady wish to sit at monsieur's table," he said, bowing politely, and still smiling.
"Monsieur will not object?"
He seemed so amiable that I felt I couldn't be rude to him.
"But who are the lady and gentleman? And why did they specify this table?" I asked, puzzled.
The waiter gave a little shrug, raising his eyebrows as he did so.
"How can I tell?" he answered. "They come to the door a moment ago, while monsieur is reading his newspaper; they see monsieur; they speak ensemble in whispers for some moments, it would seem about monsieur; and then they call me and tell me to serve their déjeuner at monsieur's table."
Hardly had he stopped speaking, when my gaze rested upon two people who had just entered and were approaching.
One was the police official, Victor Albeury. The other was Dulcie Challoner!
They greeted me with, I thought, rather exaggerated nonchalance as they came up, then seated themselves, one on either side of me, Albeury telling the waiter to "hurry up with the breakfast that he had ordered five minutes ago."