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 fashion, 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.
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