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was Dias.
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Chapter Eight
Gathering of Friends
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    With Dias was a slim, sleek man with fine brown eyes and curling eyelashes, a wide sensuous mouth and a pointed chin. His hair was black, pomaded, and brushed straight back from his high forehead. He was a Valentino of a man, a fitting foil for the vast South American, who was breathing heavily as he climbed into the cabin. His companion gave him support.
    â€˜Thank you, Lozana, thank you,’ said Dias, in English.
    â€˜My dear Doctor !’ he cried, and thrust forward his hands, took Palfrey’s unwilling left hand and pumped it up and down, pressed and fondled it, talking all the time. ‘How delightful to see you. What a remarkable— most remarkable—coincidence, and what a happy choice! We travel together!’ He released Palfrey’s hand and raised his own. Some passengers were amused by Dias’s flamboyance, others were obviously annoyed. The steward came into the cabin, the last of the crew, and called out: ‘Take your seats, please!’
    â€˜And— and, ’cried Dias, high above the racing of the four great engines, ‘and this is your wife? Señora, ever your most devoted, most humble, most admiring servant!’
    â€˜How are you?’ murmured Drusilla.
    â€˜â€¦ your seats, please!’ cried the steward.
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    Palfrey and Drusilla went to the Customs hut at Le Bourget where their luggage was examined with deceptive carelessness, marked, and released. They left the hut, and looked at the crowds about the busy airport, one of the busiest in Europe. There were some taxis, and private cars, and this was deceptive, for at the first glance it looked very much the same hustle and bustle and excitement as there had been before the war. But in the back-ground there were dog-carts, pulled by cyclists, replacing taxis.
    They were to be met, but did not see anyone they knew. Then from behind them a man spoke in a broad American accent, slurred Middle West.
    â€˜Howdy, strangers, I guess it’s good to see you folks around here.’
    They swung round. A short, wiry man was standing there and grinning at them. By his side was a taller man, as tall as Palfrey, loose-limbed, shaggy-looking, with straight fair hair and fair prominent eyebrows and an untidy moustache. He looked as if he had lived among corn and come to look like corn. He too was grinning broadly.
    â€˜Strangers?’ said Palfrey. ‘What strangers?’
    Little was said, but there was an orgy of handshaking.
    The small man was Bruton, the tall one Erikson, who came of Danish stock and looked as if he had reverted to the type of his forebears. Bruton often said that he was American as far back as his family could remember, and there was some truth in that. He came of Cornish stock, of one of the earliest settler families. His eyes were dark blue and he always looked as if he needed a shave. Unlike Erikson’s, his hair was crisp and curly. He was a good-looking man, and would have been remarkable had he been above instead of below middle height. Erikson looked magnificent.
    â€˜I’ll take your grip,’ said Erikson, and collected it. ‘The automobile is parked over there.’ He nodded towards a Packard, by which a man in a bright-blue suit was standing at ease, with an expectant smile on his broad face.
    â€˜Who’s that?’ asked Palfrey.
    â€˜Oh, that’s Gus,’ said Erikson. ‘We use him when we’re in Paris. Our watch-dog. We started to use him this time,’ continued Erikson, still exaggerating his Middle-West accent, ‘after we read about your airfield bother, Sap. I guess we preferred to make sure the Packard wasn’t blown up.’
    â€˜A good thought,’ said Palfrey.
    In the room at the Hôtel Bristol which had been reserved for the Palfreys Bruton lit a cigar and Erikson filled his pipe.
    No audience could have been more appreciative. Bruton sat on one of the twin