“One misses a great deal,” Norgate regretted, “through being only an occasional visitor here.”

“As, for instance?”

“The privilege of being one of those fortunate few.”

She laughed at him.  Her eyes were full of challenge.  She leaned a little closer and whispered in his ear:  “There is still a vacant place.”

“For to-night or to-morrow?” he asked eagerly.

“For to-morrow,” she replied.  “You may telephone—­3702 Mayfair—­at ten o’clock.”

He scribbled down the number.  Then he put his pocket-book away with a sigh.

“I’m afraid you are treating that poor sailor-man badly,” he declared.

“Sometimes,” she confided, “he bores me.  He is so very much in earnest.  Tell me about Berlin and your work there?”

“I didn’t take to Germany,” Norgate confessed, “and Germany didn’t take to me.  Between ourselves—­I shouldn’t like another soul in the club to know it—­I think it is very doubtful if I go back there.”

“That little contretemps with the Prince,” she murmured under her breath.

He stiffened at once.

“But how do you know of it?”

She bit her lip.  For a moment a frown of annoyance clouded her face.  She had said more than she intended.

“I have correspondents in Berlin,” she explained.  “They tell me of everything.  I have a friend, in fact, who was in the restaurant that night.”

“What a coincidence!” he exclaimed.

She nodded and selected a fresh cigarette.

“Isn’t it!  But that table is up.  I promised to cut in there.  Captain Baring likes me to play at the same table, and he is here for such a short time that one tries to be kind.  It is indeed kindness,” she added, taking up her gold purse and belongings, “for he plays so badly.”

She moved towards the table.  It happened to be Baring who cut out, and he and Norgate drifted together.  They exchanged a few remarks.

“I met you at Marseilles once,” Norgate reminded him.  “You were with the Mediterranean Squadron, commanding the Leicester, I believe.”

“Thought I’d seen you somewhere before,” was the prompt acknowledgment.  “You’re in the Diplomatic Service, aren’t you?”

Norgate admitted the fact and suggested a drink.  The two men settled down to exchange confidences over a whisky and soda.  Baring looked around him with some disapprobation.

“I can’t really stick this place,” he asserted.  “If it weren’t for—­for some of the people here, I’d never come inside the doors.  It’s a rotten way of spending one’s time.  You play, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, I play,” Norgate admitted, “but I rather agree with you.  How wonderfully well Mrs. Benedek is looking, isn’t she!”

Baring withdrew his admiring eyes from her vicinity.

“Prettiest and smartest woman in London,” he declared.

“By-the-by, is she English?” Norgate asked.