Mr. James Kitson pulled his chair to the table and unfolded his napkin. It was almost at this hour that Oliva Cresswell had performed a similar act.
"You are not interrupting me," said Kitson, "go on."
Beale was frowning down at deserted Piccadilly which Mr. Kitson's palatial suite at the Ritz-Carlton overlooked.
"Eh?" he said absently, "oh yes, the gunman—a sure enough gunman."
He related in a few words his experience of the previous night.
"This man Homo," said Kitson, "is he one of the gang?"
Beale shook his head.
"I don't think so. He may be one of van Heerden's ambassadors."
"Ambassadors?"