CHAPTER III. and Mrs. ‘She would not tell me. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. Once before—but that had been different. She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. Spurling.
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