“Who is that from?” she asked, “Cartwright?”
He nodded.
“Obviously,” he said, “the reference to the money and the appeal to our relationship—but how did it get there?”
He called the head waiter.
“Who were those people who went out just now?” he asked.
“They are very well known,” explained the head waiter. “There was a monsieur, a London theatrical manager, and a madame who was his wife. There was another monsieur, an American writer, and an English monsieur who was in the employment as secretary to a madame who lives at Cap Martin.”
“Madame Serpilot?” asked Timothy quickly.
“Yes, that is the name. She is a widow, hélas! but immensely rich!”
Timothy put the card into his pocket. He had said nothing to the girl about Madame Serpilot since they had left London, and for the first time he had some misgivings as to her safety. Yet in truth that sixth sense of his, which had hitherto worked so to his advantage, offered him no warning that the girl’s happiness was threatened. He was sure that whatever danger the situation held was danger to him personally. He had not seen the English monsieur who was secretary to Madame Serpilot, but then his back had been toward the far end of the room from whence the man came and he had presented no other view than the back of his head.
“It is a message from Cartwright,” he said, “and I am going to get to the bottom of this story if I stay in Monte Carlo for the rest of my life.”