Thomson walked slowly to the end of Sackville Street, crossed the road and made his way to the Ritz Hotel. He addressed himself to the head clerk of the reception counter.
“I am Surgeon-Major Thomson,” he announced.
“I was lunching here to-day and attended one of the waiters who was taken ill afterwards. I should be very glad to know if I can see him for a few moments.”
The man bowed politely.
“I remember you quite well, sir,” he said. “A Belgian waiter, was it not? He has been taken away by a lady this afternoon.”
“Taken away?” Thomson repeated, puzzled.
“The lady who was giving the luncheon—Lady Anselman—called and saw the manager about an hour ago,” the man explained. “She has interested herself very much in the matter of Belgian refugees and is entertaining a great many of them at a house of hers near the seaside. The man is really not fit to work, so we were very glad indeed to pass him on to her.”
“He recovered consciousness before he was removed, I suppose?” Thomson inquired.
“I believe so, sir. He seemed very weak and ill, though. In fact he had to be carried to the automobile.”
“I suppose he didn’t give any reason for his sudden attack?”