He had entered the café a few minutes before seven, and had looked round, as if expecting to find somebody waiting for him. Luigi had taken him the menu, and he had said he would wait a few minutes before giving his order, as a guest would arrive.
On the stroke of seven a tall, bearded man, evidently a foreigner, who walked with a limp, joined him. Questioned by Smeaton as to the nationality of the man, the proprietor replied that he could not be sure. He would take him for a Russian. He was quite certain that he was neither French nor Italian. And he was equally certain that he was not a German.
The new arrival joined Mr Monkton, who at once ordered the dinner. Neither of the men ate much, but consumed a bottle of wine between them.
They talked earnestly, and in low tones, during the progress of the meal, which was finished in about half-an-hour. Cigars, coffee, and liqueurs were then ordered, and over these they sat till half-past eight, conversing in the same low tones all the time.
Luigi added that the Russian—if he was of that nationality, as he suspected—seemed to bear the chief burden of the conversation. Mr Monkton played the part of listener most of the time, interjecting remarks now and again.
Asked if he overheard any of the talk between them, he replied that he did not catch a syllable. When he approached the table they remained silent, and did not speak again until he was well out of earshot.
“And you are quite positive it was Mr Monkton?” Smeaton had questioned, when Luigi had finished his recital. It had struck him that Luigi might have been mistaken after all.
Luigi was quite sure. He reminded Smeaton that before taking on the little restaurant in Soho he had been a waiter at the Ritz, where he had often seen the Cabinet Minister. It was impossible he could be mistaken.
He added in his excellent English, for he was one of those foreigners who are very clever linguists. “Besides, there is one other thing that proves it, even supposing I was misled by a chance likeness—though Mr Monkton’s is not a face you would easily forget—as I helped him on with his light overcoat he remarked to his friend, ‘I must hurry on as fast as I can. I am overdue at the House.’”
That seemed to settle the point. There might be a dozen men walking about London with sufficient superficial resemblance to deceive an ordinary observer, but there was no Member of the House of Commons who could pass for Monkton.