Unenticing personages passed the glass box, casting hostile glances askance at me on my high stool.

A message came back.
"If it's Mr.Etchingham Granger, he's to follow Mr.Fox to Mrs.Hartly's at once." I followed Mr.Fox to Mrs.Hartly's--to a little flat in a neighbourhood that I need not specify.

The eminent journalist was lunching with the eminent actress.

A husband was in attendance--a nonentity with a heavy yellow moustache, who hummed and hawed over his watch.
Mr.Fox was full-faced, with a persuasive, peremptory manner.

Mrs.
Hartly was--well, she was just Mrs.Hartly.You remember how we all fell in love with her figure and her manner, and her voice, and the way she used her hands.