"You bet your life I'm going to have it my own way," said the colonel. "Have you seen the girl this morning, Pinto?"
Pinto shook his head.
"You'll keep away from there for a couple of days. I've got Boyton on the spot and he'll be feeding her with bromide till she won't care whether she's in hell or Wigan. Besides, we'll all be shadowed for the next day or two, make no mistake about that. Stafford King won't let the grass grow under his feet. And now, you chaps, go home and try to look as though you've had a night's rest."
After their departure the colonel made his own preparations. There were Turkish baths in Westminster and it was to the Turkish baths he went. Clad in a towel, he passed from hot room to hot room, and finally came to the big, vaulted saloon, tiled from floor to roof, where in canvas-backed chairs the bathers doze and read. The colonel lay back in his chair, his eyes closed, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. Nor was it to be observed that he saw the thin little man who came and sat beside him. The new-comer was sallow-skinned and lantern-jawed, and his long arms were tattooed from shoulder to wrist.
"Here!" said a soft voice in French.
The colonel did not open his eyes. He merely dropped the palm fan which he was idly waving to and fro so that it hid his mouth.
"Do you remember a Monsieur White?" he said in the same tone.
"Perfectly," replied the other. "He was the man who would not have your little 'coco' friend—disposed of."
"That is the man," said the other. "You have a good memory, Raoul."
"Monsieur, my memory is wonderful, but alas! one cannot live on memory," he added sententiously.