CHAPTER XXII
AN INTERLUDE
Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but seeing nothing.
I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his deputy supplied his place.
“Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel and on the night of the first of June had met with ‘an accident’ on the underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. Walnut Street, Philadelphia.”
“Thanks,” said Simms, “I came to enquire because a patient of mine fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank you—quite so—good evening.”
In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water.
There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his drink he had a word with the bar tender.
“Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were very much alike?”