She shook her head.
“They wanted me to identify some one whom I had certainly never seen before in my life, and to tell you the truth, they were positively rude to me because I could not. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?”
“Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him.
“Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. “He was a friend of your sister’s, was he not?”
“I never heard her mention his name,” she answered. “Still, of course, it is possible. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.”
“How long had he been in the hospital?” Courtlaw asked.
“Since last night.”
“Then, whoever he may be, he is not Meysey Hill,” Courtlaw said. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. I sat within a few feet of him. I feel almost inclined to regret the fact.”
“Why?” she asked.
“If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.”