She was hatless. He saw straight, jet black hair, fine straight black eyebrows, eyes in deep shadow, carmine lips. These things belonged to no woman that he knew.
Thoughtfully he spat out a scrap of spearmint in which the flavour had ceased to last, extracted a fresh wafer from the packet in his pocket, engulfed it, and chewed with renewed enthusiasm. Then, still thoughtfully, he proceeded on his way.
The hiatus in his memory annoyed him, and even when he had filled it up it still annoyed him, for it was his boast that he never forgot a face. This was his first lapse in years, and he was never able to account for it to his satisfaction.
It was nearly an hour later, when he was chatting to the divisional inspector in Walton Street police station, that the blind spot in Teal's brain was suddenly uncovered.
"If you don't mind my saying so, sir," remarked the divisional inspector, "we've probably been combing all the wrong places. A man and a woman like Templar and Trelawney can reckon up some nerve between them. They're probably staying at some place like the Ritz—"
Teal's mouth flopped open, and his small blue eyes seemed to swell up in his face. The divisional inspector stared at him.
"What's the matter, sir?"
"The Ritz!" groaned Teal. "Oh, holy hollerin' Moses! The Ritz!"
He tore out of the station like a stampeding alp, leaving the D.I. gaping blankly at the space he had been occupying. The back exit, a breathless sprint down Yeoman's Row, brought him to the Brompton Road, and he was fortunate enough to catch a taxi without having to wait a moment.
"The Ritz Hotel," panted Teal. "And drive like blazes. I'm a police officer."