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We both know our Paris, yet do we lack anything here which you find at the Ritz or Giro's?" The young man looked around him appraisingly. The two were dining at one of the newest and most fashionable restaurants in Berlin.
Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year at a well-chosen table at Giro's restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table and a menu which had commanded the respect of the maître d'hôtel whose province it was to supply their wants. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.
The thoughts were chasing one another through his brain. Then he took up the receiver from the telephone instrument which stood upon the table. "1560 Mayfair," he asked in a low tone. They all stood listening, grouped around Graham's writhing figure. "Hullo! Is that Claridge's Hotel?" Fischer went on. "I am speaking from Giro's. Put me through, if you please, to Miss Van Teyl's apartments... What?
It was sound enough reasoning but it brought no results. At twelve o'clock the same night he paid a flying visit to all the dancing rooms Murray's, Giro's, Rector's, The Embassy, Savoy and half a dozen others. At three o'clock he rang up Daimler's, hired a car and drove to Brighton because many men come up from Brighton by day and bring no evening clothes.
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