"Did you say she was French?" he asked.

"Her husband was; she herself is Russian."

Clancey looked at him.

"Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember
the name somehow."

"No, do you?" Bobby's voice betrayed his interest.

"I must think about it," said Clancey. He pulled out his watch. "I think
it is time I got back to the War Office. I'll see about the commission,
Froelich, and let you know."

"This is where I live," said Bobby, handing him a card. "Do look me up. I
do want that commission, and as quickly as possible."

They went out of the restaurant and separated in the street, Bobby taking
his way towards his rooms in Down Street. He was wondering whether
perhaps luck had come his way, and whether Clancey would reveal to him
some means of finding Madame de Corantin. If he did, damn the commission!

That evening, as on all others, Bobby was bored to death; the habits of
twenty years were not to be thrown off in a day. It was impossible for
him to go to bed before the small hours, and not knowing how else to kill
time he dropped in at the Savoy restaurant. It was late when he got
there, and he strolled through the foyer, stopping at various tables to
talk to acquaintances. He had no intention of taking supper, but just