Now as I have indicated, I find the usual leering male look quite repulsive. I am accustomed, however, to having my presence noted. Tony, who knows me only too well, glanced from me to the newcomer and said, with a nasty grin.

“This is Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, from Frankfurt. Doc, meet Fräulein Doktor Bliss.”

The young man half rose, clutching his napkin, and made a stiff bow.

“Doctor of medicine,” he said, in heavily accented English.

“Doctor of philosophy,” I said, before I could stop myself. “How do you do?”

“Very pleased,” said Herr Doktor Blankenhagen, without conviction. He opened a newspaper and retreated behind it.

“Hmmph,” I said; and then, before Tony’s grin could get any more obnoxious, I went on,

“One more place at the table. Who’s that for?”

Tony’s grin faded into the limbo of lost smiles. I knew then. I had been half expecting it, but I still didn’t like it.

“Hi, there,” said George Nolan, making his appearance with theatrical skill, at just the right moment. “Glad you got here, Vicky.”

“Hi yourself,” I said. “Congratulations on your detective skill. Or did you just follow Tony?”

George laughed, and leaned over to give Tony a friendly smack on the shoulder. Tony swayed.

“Right the second time.”

“No problem following him?” I asked sweetly. “Not for a man who has tracked the deadly tiger to its lair, and hunted the Abominable Snowman in his mysterious haunts.”

“He went to the Jones Travel Agency,” said George, still grinning. “As soon as my gratuity to one of the help produced the name of Rothenburg, I put two and two together.”

We both burst out laughing. Tony glowered. Blankenhagen lowered his newspaper, gave us a contemptuous stare in common, and hid behind it again.

The waitress, a stolid blond damsel, came with our soup, and the meal proceeded. Tony sulked in silence, Blankenhagen read his newspaper, and George and I kept up the social amenities. He was a master of the double entendre, and I don’t mean just the sexual entendre. He kept dropping hints about sculpture and secret passages in ancient castles. Tony writhed, but I was pleased to see he was learning to control his tongue. Part of George’s technique was to probe until he got an angry, unthinking response.

With the dessert came Irma, hot and harassed, but still disgustingly beautiful, to inquire how we had liked the meal. She didn’t give a damn, really. It was just part of the job. Tony bounded to his feet the moment she appeared, and even Blankenhagen registered a touch of emotion. I began to wonder about Tony’s joie de vivre. Maybe it had another cause than the one I had suspected.

When the meal was over, Tony got to his feet and reached for my hand.

“Excuse us,” he said firmly. “I want to talk to Vicky alone.”

George was amused.

“Help yourself,” he said.

We proceeded, in pregnant silence, to the courtyard. Behind the sheltering hedge lay a diminutive garden, its flowers pale pastel in the twilight. Tony sat me down on a bench and stood over me.