Pamela, after a brief conversation with her friends,
once more left the restaurant. In the lobby she
called Ferrani to her.
“Has Mr. Fischer gone, Ferrani?” she asked.
“Not two minutes ago,” the man replied.
“You wish to speak to him? I can stop him
even now.”
She shook her head.
“On the contrary,” she said drily, “Mr.
Fischer represents a type of my countrymen of whom
I am not very fond. He is a great patron of yours,
is he not?”
“He is a large shareholder in the company,”
Ferrani confessed.
“Then your restaurant will prosper,” she
told him. “Mr. Fischer has the name of
being very fortunate.... That was a wonderful
luncheon you gave us to-day.”
“Madame is very kind.”
“Will you do me a favour?”
Ferrani’s gesture was all-expressive. Words
were entirely superfluous.
“I want two addresses, please. First, the
address of Joseph, your head musician, and, secondly,
the address of Hassan, your coffee-maker.”
Ferrani effectually concealed any surprise he might
have felt. He tore a page from his pocket-book.
“Both I know,” he declared. “Hassan
lodges at a shop eighty yards away. The name
is Haines, and there are newspaper placards outside
the door.”
“That is quite enough,” Pamela murmured.
“As for Monsieur Joseph,” Ferrani continued,
“that is a different matter. He has, I
understand, a small flat in Tower Mansions, Tower
Street, leading off the Edgware Road. The number
is 18C. So!”
He wrote it down and passed it to her. Pamela
thanked him and stood up.
“Now that I have done as you asked me,”
Ferrani concluded, “let me add a word.
Both these men are already off duty and have left the
restaurant. If you wish to communicate with either
of them, I advise you to do so by letter.”
“You are a very courteous gentleman, Mr. Ferrani,”
Pamela declared, dropping him a little mock curtsey,
“and good morning!”
She made her way into the street outside, shook her
head to the commissionaire’s upraised whistle,
and strolled along until she came to a cross street
down which several motor-cars were waiting. She
approached one—a very handsome limousine—and
checked the driver who would have sprung from his
seat.
“George,” she said, “I am going
to pay a call at a disreputable-looking news-shop,
just where I am pointing. You can’t bring
the car there, as the street is too narrow. You
might follow me on foot and be about.”
The young man touched his hat and obeyed. A few
yards down the street Pamela found her destination,
and entered a gloomy little shop. A slatternly
woman looked at her curiously from behind the counter.
“I am told that Hassan lodges here, the coffee-maker
from Henry’s,” Pamela began.
The woman looked at her in a peculiar fashion.
