Moreno held out his hand to Mrs Hargrave. He bore the air of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed himself, as in truth he had.
“A most delightful evening. I can only hope you will sit beside me next week. But that I fear is too much to hope for. I expect our good friend Luçue arranges these things with a sense of equity.”
Mrs Hargrave smiled. “I expect next time he will put you next to Mademoiselle Delmonte.” Ignoring his outstretched hand, she added abruptly, “Are you doing anything after this?”
“I was only going on to my club for an hour or two. We journalists are not very early birds.”
Mrs Hargrave spoke with her most charming smile. “Then get me a taxi, and drive with me to my flat in Mount Street. I should like to have a little chat with you.”
Moreno was delighted to accompany her. He was eager to know more of this fascinating and enigmatical woman. He was puzzled by her. How did she live; on what did she live? Was she at heart an anarchist? Or, sudden thought, was she playing the same game as himself? He had noticed her lack of enthusiasm over the events of the evening.
Arrived in Mount Street, she produced her latchkey, and ushered him into her luxurious flat, the abode of a well-off woman. She turned into the drawing-room, and switched on the electric light.
She threw her cloak on a chair and rang the bell. When the maid appeared in answer, she ordered her to bring refreshment.
She mixed a whiskey and soda for Moreno with her own slender dainty hands. She mixed a very small portion for herself, to keep him company.
“I very rarely take anything of this sort, just a glass of very light wine at lunch or dinner,” she explained. “But to-night is a somewhat exceptional one. To your health, Mr Moreno. I hope we may meet often.”