They walked back to the hotel without exchanging a word. At the entrance were grouped some of the Thirty-Nine anxious lords of creation.
When Beresford reached his own table in the dining-room, he found seated at it a little man with a dark moustache, a greasy skin, and a general atmosphere of One-of-Us about him. The man looked up and smiled. Beresford bowed coldly, as he recognised one of his most persistent would-be hosts, a man who had invited him to take anything from a whisky-and-soda to a high dive in his company.
Beresford sought out Mr. Byles, who smiled with servile tact and rubbed his hands.
"There's someone sitting at my table, Byles," he said; "I'm going upstairs. I shall be down in five minutes. You will find me a table to myself as I arranged."
"I'm very sorry, sir," said Byles, "but we're so full up."
"You will do as I say," said Beresford coldly, "or I shall report the matter to the management. By the way, the seat that Mr. Gordon previously occupied is still vacant," he added over his shoulder as he turned towards the door, conscious of a look of hatred in Byles's eyes.
When he returned to the dining-room his table was unoccupied, and the man with the dark moustache and the moist complexion was darting glances of hatred in his direction. Beresford wondered
