The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy demise he had read in the papers.
He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but still like. His assistant had seen them too.
“Quite so,” said Simms; “they are friends of mine and I hoped to see them again here this evening—perhaps they are waiting in the lounge.”
He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone office and rang up Curzon Street.
The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the Buffs’ Club in Piccadilly.
Simms drove to the Club.
The Duke was in the library.
His Grace had literary leanings. His “History of the Siege of Bundlecund,” of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the “Siege of Jutjutpore.” He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced.
The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together into a cosy corner, the two men talked.
“Your Grace,” said Simms, “we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself to be.”