He desired Monsieur Duncombe to be amused,
and the people who remained in the bar--well, it was not possible to get
rid of them, but they were not fitting company for him.
"There is the Cafe Mazarin," he added confidentially, "a few steps only
from here--a most amusing place. The most wonderful ladies there, too,
very chic, and crowded every night! Monsieur should really try it. The
commissionaire would direct him--a few yards only."
"Much obliged to you," Duncombe answered, turning on his heel. "I may
look in there presently."
He seated himself at a small round table and ordered a drink. The people
here were of a slightly different class from those who had the _entree_
to the supper-room and were mostly crowded round the bar itself. At a
small desk within a few feet of him a middle-aged woman with a cold,
hard face sat with a book of account before her and a pile of bills.
There was something almost Sphynx-like about her appearance. She never
spoke. Her expression never changed. Once their eyes met. She looked at
him steadfastly, but said nothing. The girl behind the bar also took
note of him. She was very tall and slim, absolutely colorless, and with
coils of fair hair drawn tightly back from her forehead.
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