Part 9 (1/2)
COFFEE FOR THREE
”Admit,” Kendricks insisted, ”that you have dined well?”
”I have dined amply,” Julien replied.
Kendricks frowned.
”I am not satisfied,” he declared.
”The _entrecote_ was wonderful, also the omelette,” Julien admitted. ”I will supplement 'amply' with 'well,' if you wish, but the insistent note about this dinner is certainly its amplitude. I have not eaten so much for ages.”
Kendricks was filling his pipe.
”Cigars or cigarettes you must order for yourself,” he said. ”I know nothing of them. The coffee is before you. I will be frank with you--it is not good. The brandy, however, is harmless.”
Julien lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Just then the sandy young man re-entered the room. He hastened to his place, but instead of resuming it stood by the side of the girl, talking. He seemed to be suggesting some course of which she disapproved, pointing to her unfinished dinner. Kendricks nodded his head slowly.
”The young man has to leave,” he remarked. ”He wishes mademoiselle to accompany him. She declines. He is annoyed. Behold, a lover's tiff! He has placed the money for the dinner upon the table. He shakes her hand very politely. Behold, he goes! Mademoiselle shrugs her shoulders. She orders from the menu. She remains alone. My dear Julien, if you will you can prosecute your conquest. The young man has departed.”
Julien glanced across the room. He met the girl's eyes and once again he saw in them that curious, almost impersonal invitation.
”She wants something,” Kendricks declared. ”I am going over to see what it can be. Carlo!”
He summoned the waiter and asked him a question quickly in Italian.
”The man says that her companion is not returning,” he remarked, rising. ”I am going to interview the young lady.”
Julien shrugged his shoulders.
”As you will.”
Kendricks crossed the room, his pipe still in his hand. The girl watched him come, for a moment, and then looked down upon the tablecloth. She was at the end of a table laid for four or five people, but only two men were left at the extreme end.
”Mademoiselle,” Kendricks said, ”my friend thanks you for your message.
His curiosity, however, is piqued. Is there not an opportunity now for explaining further?”
She regarded her questioner a little doubtfully.
”Who are you?” she asked.
Kendricks sighed.
”My dear young lady,” he answered, ”I flattered myself that I possessed a personality which no one could mistake. Furthermore, I am a constant patron here.”
”I have never been here in my life before,” the girl told him.
”Then your ignorance shall be pardoned,” Kendricks declared. ”My name is David Kendricks. I am a journalist. I ought to be an editor, but the fact remains that I am a mere collector of news, a bringer together of those trifles which go to make such prints as these,” he added, touching her evening paper, ”interesting.”
”A journalist,” she repeated, glancing up at him. ”Yes! I might have guessed that. Are you a friend of Sir Julien Portel?”