His one desire at
that moment was not to make a mistake. He decided to leave
unasked the obvious question.
"I know," he said simply. "Are you dining anywhere?"
"I thought of staying on here," was the indifferent reply.
"We won't do anything of the sort," Wilmore insisted. "There's
scarcely a soul in to-night, and the place is too humpy for a man
who's been seeing spooks. Get back to your rooms and change.
I'll wait here."
"What about you?"
"I have some clothes in my locker. Don't be long. And, by-the-bye,
which shall it be--Bohemia or Mayfair? I'll telephone for a table.
London's so infernally full, these days."
Francis hesitated.
"I really don't care," he confessed. "Now I think of it, I shall
be glad to get away from here, though. I don't want any more
congratulations on saving Oliver Hilditch's life. Let's go where
we are least likely to meet any one we know."
"Respectability and a starched shirt-front, then," Wilmore
decided. "We'll go to Claridge's."
CHAPTER III
The two men occupied a table set against the wall, not far from
the entrance to the restaurant, and throughout the progress of
the earlier part of their meal were able to watch the constant
incoming stream of their fellow-guests. They were, in their way,
an interesting contrast physically, neither of them good-looking
according to ordinary standards, but both with many pleasant
characteristics.
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