“Good evening,” replied Bannister, rising quickly. “you are Mr.——?” He paused.
“Falcon,” announced the newcomer.
“Why—you’re the——?”
“Proprietor of the ‘Grand Hotel,’ ” came the answer. “What is it this——?”
“Just the man I wanted,” interjected the Inspector, cutting short his sentence. “This is a friend of mine—Mr. Anthony Bathurst.”
Falcon smiled across at Anthony. Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgement. Bannister motioned Falcon to a seat beside him. “Something you can tell me. Who are the two young fellows at the table behind?”
Falcon indulged in a sharp sidelong glance. “Two young ‘commercials,’ ” he declared. “They’re frequently here. They come in here pretty regularly towards the end of the week.”
Bannister pulled the hotel-proprietor towards him. “Did you see any news in the paper this morning about a tragedy at Seabourne?”
“Can’t say that I did,” said Falcon. “As a matter of fact I’ve had a downright busy day and haven’t had too much time to spare for actual newspaper-reading. I looked at the sporting news, it’s true—but I think that was about all. What about it?”
Bannister dropped his voice to its lowest possible pitch. “We have reason to suspect,” he announced very gravely, “that the murdered lady is an inhabitant of these parts.”