“Who on earth was that?” I asked directly we were in the street. “You don’t imagine you saw il Conte under that disguise?”
“No,” he answered shortly, and went on. After a few steps he stopped, as though to inspect a particularly uninteresting shop window, but, as I knew, as an excuse for looking round. Then we walked on again, and he took my arm.
“Who do you think that was?”
“I haven’t an idea.”
“The man who married the Princess and Von Orsova.”
“Whew!” I could only whistle in surprise. “What in the world is he doing here?”
“That is what I am wondering.”
“His cure may be near this place. But then, why does he travel with a bag?”
“And lunch at an hotel. A man of that sort would have had a meal before he started, or brought some wurst sandwiches in his pocket. I think he had come a long journey.”
“And is not at the end of it.”