An Amiable Charlatan Part 31

"I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, raising my hat.

"I suppose I shall find Eve in?"

"No doubt you will!" she snapped.

I glanced at the depressed young woman.

"I am taking a temporary secretary with me," Mrs. Bundercombe explained.

"Recent reports of my speeches in this country have been so unsatisfactory that I have lost confidence in the Press. I am taking an experienced shorthand-writer with me, who will furnish the various journals with a verbatim report of what I say."

"Much more satisfactory, I am sure," I agreed, edging toward the house. "I wish you a successful meeting, Mrs. Bundercombe. You mustn't miss your train!"

"And I trust," Mrs. Bundercombe concluded, as she turned to enter the cab, "that if you accompany Eve in her shopping expeditions to-day, or during my absence, you will not encourage her in any fresh extravagances."

I made my way into the house and entered the morning room as the cab drove off. Mr. Bundercombe and Eve were waltzing. Mr. Bundercombe paused at my entrance and wiped his forehead. He was very hot.

"A little ebullition of feeling, my dear Paul," he explained, "on seeing you. You met Mrs. Bundercombe? You have heard the news?"

"I gathered," I remarked, "that Mrs. Bundercombe's sense of duty is taking her to Leeds."

Mr. Bundercombe breathed a resigned sigh.

"We shall be alone," he announced, with ill-concealed jubilation, "if we have any luck at all, for three days! One never knows, though! I propose that we celebrate to-night, unless," he added, with a sudden gloom, "you two want to go off and dine somewhere alone."

"Not likely!" I a.s.sured him quickly.

"Daddy!" Eve exclaimed reproachfully.

Mr. Bundercombe cheered up.

"Then, if you're both agreeable," he proposed, "let us go and pay Luigi a visit. I have rather a fancy to show him a reestablished Mr. Bundercombe.

You know, I sometimes think," he went on, "that Luigi was beginning to regard me with suspicion!"

"There isn't any doubt about it," I observed dryly.

"We will dine there to-night," Mr. Bundercombe decided, "that is, if you two are willing."

I hesitated for a moment. Eve was looking at me for my decision.

"I really see no reason why we shouldn't go there," I said. "I have to take Eve to some rather dull relatives for luncheon, and I suppose we shall be shopping afterward. It will brighten up the day."

"We will give Luigi no intimation of our coming," Mr. Bundercombe suggested with relish. "We shall be in no hurry; so we can order our dinner when we arrive there. At eight o'clock?"

"At eight o'clock!" I agreed.

"More presents, Paul!" Eve informed me, taking my arm. "Come along and help me unpack! Isn't it fun?"

Luigi's reception of us that night was most gratifying. He escorted us to the best table in the place, from which he ruthlessly seized the mystic label that kept it from the onslaughts of less privileged guests. He congratulated me upon my parliamentary honors and my engagement in the same breath.

It was perfectly clear to me that Luigi knew all about us. He addressed Mr. Bundercombe with an air of deep respect in which was visible, too, an air of relieved apprehension. He took our order himself, with the aid of an a.s.sistant _maitre d'hotel_, at whom Mr. Bundercombe glanced with some surprise.

"Where is Louis?" he inquired.

"Gone--left!" Luigi answered.

Mr. Bundercombe was obviously disappointed.

"Say, is that so!" he exclaimed, "Why, I thought he was a fixture! Been here a long time, had'nt he?"

"Nearly twelve years," Luigi admitted.

"Has he got a restaurant of his own?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.

Luigi shook his head.

"On the contrary, sir," he replied, "I think Louis has gone off his head.

He has taken a very much inferior post at a very inferior place. A restaurant of a different cla.s.s altogether--not at all _comme il faut_; a little place for the mult.i.tude--Giatron's, in Soho. The foolishness of it --for all his old clients must be useless! No one would eat in such a hole.

It is most mysterious!"

We dined well and gayly. Mr. Bundercombe renewed many restaurant acquaintances and I am quite sure he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Every now and then, however, a shadow rested on his face. Watching him, I felt quite certain of the reason. It was only during the last few weeks that I had begun to realize the immense good nature of the man. He was worrying about Louis.

We sat there until nearly ten o'clock. When we rose to go Mr. Bundercombe turned to us. "Say," he asked, a little diffidently, "would you people object to just dropping in at this Giatron's? Or will you go off somewhere by yourselves and meet me afterward?"

"We will go wherever you go, dad," Eve declared. "We are not going to leave you alone when we do have an evening off."

"I should like to find out about Louis myself," I interposed. "I always thought he was the best _maitre d'hotel_ in London."

We drove to Giatron's and found it in a back street--a shabby, unpretentious-looking place, with a front that had once been white, but that was now grimy in the extreme. The windows were hung with little curtains in the French fas.h.i.+on, whose freshness had also long departed.

The restaurant itself was low and teeming with the odor of past dinners.

At this hour it was almost empty. Several untidy-looking waiters were rearranging tables. In the middle of the room Louis was standing.

He recognized us with a little start, though he made no movement whatever in our direction. He was certainly a changed being. He stood and looked at us as though we were ghosts. Mr. Bundercombe waved his hand in friendly fas.h.i.+on. It was not until then that Louis, with marked unwillingness, came forward to greet us.

"Come to see your new quarters, Louis!" Mr. Bundercombe said cheerfully.

"Find us a table and serve us some of your special coffee. We will dine here another evening."

Louis showed us to a table and handed us over to the care of an unwholesome-looking German waiter, with only a very brief interchange of courtesies. And then, with a word of excuse, he darted away. Mr.

Bundercombe looked after him wonderingly.

The coffee was brought by the waiter and served without Louis'

reappearance. The effect of his absence on Mr. Bundercombe, however, was only to make him more determined than ever to get at the bottom of whatever mystery there might be.

"Just tell Louis, the _maitre d'hotel_, I wish to speak to him," he instructed the waiter.

The man departed. Ten minutes pa.s.sed, but there was no sign of Louis. Mr.

Bundercombe sent another and more imperative message. This time Louis obeyed it. As he crossed the room a little hesitatingly toward us, it was almost sad to notice the alteration in his appearance. At Luigi's he had been so smart, so upright, so well dressed. Here he was a changed being.

His hair needed cutting; his linen was no longer irreproachable; his clothes were dusty and out of shape. The man seemed to have lost all care of himself and all pride in his work. When at last he reached the table Mr. Bundercombe did not beat about the bush.

"Louis," he said, "we have been to Stephano's tonight for the first time for some weeks. I came along here to see you because of what Luigi told me. Now you can just take this from me: You've got to tell me the truth.

There's something wrong with you! What is it?"