“Dimambro?” he said. “Recently, then? We shall see.”
“About the beginning or middle of November,” answered Selwood.
The manager found the pages: suddenly he pointed to an entry.
“See, then!” he exclaimed dramatically. “You are right, sir. There—Luigi Dimambro—November 11th to—yes—13th. Two days only. Then he go—leave us, eh?”
“Oh, then, he’s not here now,” said Selwood, affecting disappointment. “That’s a pity. I wanted to see him. I wonder if he left any address?”
The manager showed more politeness in returning to the hotel office and making inquiry. He came back full of disappointment that he could not oblige his customer. No—no address—merely there for two nights—then gone—nobody knew where. Perhaps he would return—some day.
“Oh, it’s of no great consequence, thank you,” remarked Selwood. “I’m much obliged to you.”
He had found out, at any rate, that a man named Dimambro had certainly stayed at the Hotel Ravenna on the critical and important date. Presumably he was the man who had presented Jacob Herapath’s cheque at Bittleston’s Bank first thing on the morning after the murder. But whether this man had any connection with that murder, whether to discover his whereabouts would be to reveal something of use in establishing Barthorpe Herapath’s innocence, were questions which he must leave to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, to whom he was presently going with his news.
He had just finished his coffee, and was about to pay his bill when, looking up to summon the waiter, he suddenly saw a face appear behind the glass panel of the street door—the face of a man who had evidently stolen quietly into the entry between the evergreen shrubs and wished to take a surreptitious peep into the interior of the little restaurant. It was there, clearly seen through the glass, but for one fraction of a second—then it was withdrawn as swiftly as it had come and the panel of glass was blank again. But in that flash of time Selwood had recognized it.
Burchill!