"It was not a fit at all," I said gravely. "He was shot with a sort of air-gun by a man sitting at my table. I think that you ought to send for the police at once. The man's name was Grooten, but I know nothing else about him."
The manager was for a moment speechless. The child looked at me eagerly.
"It was the little old gentleman who was sitting with you who did it," she exclaimed. "I saw him at Charing Cross."
"Yes, it was he!" I answered.
The child turned away.
"Perhaps after all, then," she murmured to herself, "I may have friends in the world."
The manager, whose name was Huber, was inclined to be incredulous.
"An air-gun would have made as much noise as a revolver," he said. "Are you sure of what you say, Mr. Greatson?"
"There is no doubt at all about it," I answered, "and you ought to inform the police at once. This man—Grooten, he called himself—pulled the pistol out of his pocket, and was pretending to show it to me when he fired the shot. He told me that it was a new invention which he had bought in America, and which was quite noiseless."
The manager hurried from the room. The child and I were alone, except for the man on the couch. Every now and then he groaned—a sound I could not hear without a shiver. The child, however, was unmoved. She fixed her dark eyes on me.