“And you, madame!” He bowed low over her hand.

Tuppence returned to the kitchen.

“Count Stepanov, or some such,” she remarked, and affecting a frank and unvarnished curiosity:  “Who’s he?”

“A Russian gentleman, I believe.”

“Come here much?”

“Once in a while.  What d’you want to know for?”

“Fancied he might be sweet on the missus, that’s all,” explained the girl, adding with an appearance of sulkiness:  “How you do take one up!”

“I’m not quite easy in my mind about the souffle,” explained the other.

“You know something,” thought Tuppence to herself, but aloud she only said:  “Going to dish up now?  Right-o.”

Whilst waiting at table, Tuppence listened closely to all that was said.  She remembered that this was one of the men Tommy was shadowing when she had last seen him.  Already, although she would hardly admit it, she was becoming uneasy about her partner.  Where was he?  Why had no word of any kind come from him?  She had arranged before leaving the Ritz to have all letters or messages sent on at once by special messenger to a small stationer’s shop near at hand where Albert was to call in frequently.  True, it was only yesterday morning that she had parted from Tommy, and she told herself that any anxiety on his behalf would be absurd.  Still, it was strange that he had sent no word of any kind.

But, listen as she might, the conversation presented no clue.  Boris and Mrs. Vandemeyer talked on purely indifferent subjects:  plays they had seen, new dances, and the latest society gossip.  After dinner they repaired to the small boudoir where Mrs. Vandemeyer, stretched on the divan, looked more wickedly beautiful than ever.  Tuppence brought in the coffee and liqueurs and unwillingly retired.  As she did so, she heard Boris say: 

“New, isn’t she?”

“She came in to-day.  The other was a fiend.  This girl seems all right.  She waits well.”

Tuppence lingered a moment longer by the door which she had carefully neglected to close, and heard him say: 

“Quite safe, I suppose?”

“Really, Boris, you are absurdly suspicious.  I believe she’s the cousin of the hall porter, or something of the kind.  And nobody even dreams that I have any connection with our—­mutual friend, Mr. Brown.”

“For heaven’s sake, be careful, Rita.  That door isn’t shut.”

“Well, shut it then,” laughed the woman.

Tuppence removed herself speedily.

She dared not absent herself longer from the back premises, but she cleared away and washed up with a breathless speed acquired in hospital.  Then she slipped quietly back to the boudoir door.  The cook, more leisurely, was still busy in the kitchen and, if she missed the other, would only suppose her to be turning down the beds.

Alas!  The conversation inside was being carried on in too low a tone to permit of her hearing anything of it.  She dared not reopen the door, however gently.  Mrs. Vandemeyer was sitting almost facing it, and Tuppence respected her mistress’s lynx-eyed powers of observation.