They stared curiously at the anxious-looking young woman in black and the grey-clad, unmistakably American young man, who both at once began to make inquiries about a certain telegram which had been handed in there at half-past seven o'clock the evening before.
"Are you the person to whom the telegram was addressed?" one of the girls asked almost suspiciously.
"Yes. I am Miss Smith. You see! Here is an envelope addressed to me at the Hotel Cecil," I said, feverishly producing that envelope (it belonged to Mr. Brace's last note to me). "Can you tell me who handed in this message?"
"I couldn't, I'm sure," said the girl who had spoken suspiciously. "I was off last evening before six."
"Can you tell me who was here?" I demanded, fuming at the delay.
The girls seemed blissfully unaware that this was a matter of life and death to me.
"Miss Carfax was here, I believe," volunteered one of the other girls, in the "parcels" division of the long counter.
I asked eagerly: "Which is Miss Carfax, please?"
"Just gone to her lunch," the two girls replied at once. "Won't be back until two o'clock."
"Oh, dear!" I fretted. Then a third girl spoke up.