"From New York?"
"I don't know, ma'm, the party didn't say, just asked for Monsieur Paul Martin—party with a sort of a foreign accent, French, I guess."
Eve looked sharply to Lanyard: "It is for you—you must answer it." He responded with a puzzled nod, though his memory needed no more jogging. But was it possible? he wondered, letting the waiter lead to the telephone booth in the office of the inn; aside from Eve and himself, that alias of a day long past was known to but three people in the world; and of these one was in London and one at last accounts in Paris, the third alone was in New York . . .
But if Liane knew where he was dining, so far away from Town, she must have been informed by somebody who had followed him without his knowledge!
Not the voice of Liane, but a man's saluted him above the humming of the long distance wire, a man's voice with, as the waiter had indicated, a strong tinge of nasal French.
"Monsieur Paul Martin?"
"Yes. Who wants him?"
"I am spikin' for 'is sister. Ees this Monsieur Martin spikin'?"
It was Liane who for her own ends had nominated herself the sister of Monsieur Paul Martin, one day in Paris long ago.
Lanyard answered "Yes."