David telegraphed the safe arrival of the party at a Whitby hotel. “We have seen nothing more of our Northumberland Avenue acquaintance,” he added.
Holden, too, cabled from Paris, announcing progress. The remainder of the correspondence referred to other matters and social engagements, all which latter fixtures the barrister had summarily broken.
Winter was announced. His face heralded important tidings.
“Well, how goes the ratiocinative process?’ was Brett’s greeting.
“I don’t know him,” said the detective. “But I do happen to know most of the private inquiry agents in London, and one of ’em is going strong in Middle Street. He’s watching Mr. Ooma for all he’s worth.”
“Mr. Whom-a?”
“I’m not joking, Mr. Brett. That is the name of the mysterious gent in No. 37—Ooma, no initials. Anyhow, that is the name he gives to the landlady, and her daughter—the girl you followed from the hotel—tells all her friends that when he gets his rights he will marry her and make her a princess.”
“Ooma—a princess,” repeated Brett.
“Such is the yarn in Kennington circles. I obeyed orders absolutely. I and my mate took turn about in the lodgings we hired, where we are supposed to be inventors. My pal has a mechanical twist. He puts together a small electric machine during his spell, and I take it to pieces in mine. Yesterday my landlady was in the room, and Ooma looked out of the opposite window. Then she told me the whole story.”
“Go on—do!”