“You will please all leave the Burton Room immediately,” he said.
Looks of surprise greeted his words; but with his handkerchief raised to his face, he peremptorily repeated them. The official note in his voice was readily to be detected; and the wonder-stricken group departed with many a backward glance.
As the last left the Burton Room, Bristol pointed, with a rather shaky finger, at the soft felt hat which lay at his feet. It had formed part of Dexter’s disguise. Close beside it lay another object which had evidently fallen from the hat—a dull red thing lying on the polished parquet flooring.
“For God’s sake don’t go near it!” whispered Bristol. “The room must be closed for the present. And now I’m off after that man. Step clear of it.”
His words were unnecessary; I shunned it as a leprous thing.
It was the slipper of the Prophet!
CHAPTER XXIII
THE THREE MESSAGES
I stood in the foyer of the Astoria Hotel. About me was the pulsing stir of transatlantic life, for the tourist season was now at its height, and I counted myself fortunate in that I had been able to secure a room at this establishment, always so popular with American visitors. Chatting groups surrounded me and I became acquainted with numberless projects for visiting the Tower of London, the National Gallery, the British Museum, Windsor Castle, Kew Gardens, and the other sights dear to the heart of our visiting cousins. Loaded lifts ascended and descended. Bradshaws were in great evidence everywhere; all was hustle and glad animation.
The tall military-looking man who stood beside me glanced about him with a rather grim smile.
“You ought to be safe enough here, Mr. Cavanagh!” he said.