"None other," said the banker. And that was all he would say.
But at six o'clock that night T. B. received a message. It was written in pencil on the torn edges of a newspaper.
"To-night Sir George Calliper is dining with the Spanish dancing girl, La Belle Espagnole."
That, and an initial, was all the note contained, but it came from the most reliable man in the Criminal Investigation Department, and T. B. whistled his astonishment.
CHAPTER XIV
SIR GEORGE DINES
Sir George Calliper lived in St. James's Street. A bachelor—some regarded him as a misogynist—his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman's hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury.
The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven.
He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered.
"I am dining out," said Sir George shortly. "I shall be home at eleven." It was characteristic that he did not say "may be home," or "at about eleven."