"MR. GUEST"
I had been alone for nearly an hour before there came a cautious tapping at my door, I opened it at once, and stared at my visitor in surprise. It was the man in the grey tweed suit, who had broken into my room the night before.
"You!" I exclaimed; "what the mischief are you doing here?"
"If you will permit me to enter," he said, "I shall be glad to explain."
He stepped past me into the room. I closed the door behind him.
"What do you want with me?" I asked.
My visitor regarded me thoughtfully through his gold-rimmed spectacles. I, too, was taking careful note of him. Any one more commonplace—with less of the bearing of a conspirator—it would be impossible to imagine. His features, his clothes, his bearing, were all ordinary. His face had not even the shrewdness of the successful business man. His brown beard was carefully trimmed, his figure was a little podgy, his manner undistinguished. I found it hard to associate him in my mind with such things as the woman whom I had left a few moments ago had spoken of.
"I understand," he said, "that you wish for an interview with your friend, Mr. Leslie Guest. His room happens to be close to mine. I shall be pleased to conduct you there!"
"You have seen Miss Van Hoyt then?" I exclaimed.
"I have just left her!" he answered.