“Give himself up, do you mean?” exclaimed Selwood.
“Likely—but if he does, it’ll be done with a purpose,” answered the Professor. “Well—keep all quiet at present, and tomorrow morning, go and see if you can find out more about Dimambro at that hotel.”
Selwood repaired to the polite manager again next day and found no difficulty in getting whatever information the hotel staff—represented by a manageress, a general man-servant, and a maid or two—could give. It was meagre, and not too exact in particulars. Mr. Dimambro, who had never been there before, had stopped two days. He had occupied Room 5—the gentleman could see it if he wished. Mr. Dimambro had been in and out most of the time. On the 13th he had gone out early in the morning; by ten o’clock he had returned, paid his bill, and gone away with his luggage—one suit-case. No—he had had no callers at the hotel. But a waiter in the restaurant was discovered who remembered him as Number 5, and that on the 12th he had entertained a gentleman to dinner at seven o’clock—a tall, thin, dark-faced gentleman, who looked like—yes, like an actor: a nicely dressed gentleman. That was all the waiter could remember of the guest; he remembered just about as much of Number 5, which was that Dimambro was a shortish, stoutish gentleman, with a slight black beard and moustache. There was a good reason why the waiter remembered this occurrence—the two gentlemen had a bottle of the best champagne, a rare occurrence at the Hotel Ravenna—a whole bottle, for which the surprising sum of twelve shillings and sixpence was charged! In proof of that startling episode in the restaurant routine, he produced the desk book for that day—behold it, the entry: Number 5—1 Moet & Chandon, 12s. 6d.
“It is of a rare thing our customers call for wine so expensive,” said the polite manager. “Light wines, you understand, sir, we mostly sell. Champagne at twelve and six—an event!”
Selwood carried this further news to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who roused himself from his microscope to consider it.
“Could that tall, dark, nicely-dressed gentleman have been Burchill?” he muttered. “Sounds like him. But you’ve got a description of Dimambro, at any rate. Now we know of one man who saw the caller at the House of Commons—Mountain, the coachman. Come along—I’ll go with you to see Mountain.”
Mountain, discovered at the mews wherein the Herapath stable was kept, said at once that he remembered the gentleman who had come out of the House of Commons with his late master. But when he came to be taxed with a requirement of details, Mountain’s memory proved to be of no real value. The gentleman—well, he was a well-dressed gentleman, and he wore a top hat. But whether the gentleman was dark or fair, elderly or middle-aged, short or medium-heighted, he did not know—exactly. Nevertheless——
“I should know him again, sir, if I was to set eyes on him!” said Mountain, with such belief in his powers. “Pick him out of a thousand, I could!”
“Queer how deficient most of our people are in the faculty of observation!” remarked the Professor as he and Selwood left the mews. “It really is most extraordinary that a man like that, with plenty of intelligence, and is no doubt a good man in his own line, can look at another man for a full minute and yet be utterly unable to tell you anything definite about him a month later! No help there, Selwood.”
It seemed to Selwood that they were face to face with an impossible situation, and he began to feel inclined to share Mr. Halfpenny’s pessimistic opinions as to the usefulness of these researches. But Professor Cox-Raythwaite was not to be easily daunted, and he was no sooner baulked in one direction than he hastened to try another.