"She mightn't look so young with a hat on," Robert said, considering it.
"A hat." Albert paused. "Now, wait a minute. A hat." Albert laid his little tray down and picked up the paper to consider it. "Yes, of course; that's the girl in the green hat!"
"You mean she came in here for coffee?"
"No, for tea."
"Tea!"
"Yes, of course, that's the girl. Fancy me not seeing that, and we had that paper in the pantry last Friday and chewed the rag over it for hours! Of course it's some time ago now, isn't it. About six weeks or so, it must be. She always came early; just about three, when we start serving teas."
So that is what she did. Fool that he was not to have seen that. She went into the morning round at the cinema in time to pay the cheaper price-just before noon, that was-and came out about three, and had tea, not coffee. But why the Midland, where the tea was the usual dowdy and expensive hotel exhibit, when she could wallow in cakes elsewhere?
"I noticed her because she always came alone. The first time she came I thought she was waiting for relations. That's the kind of kid she looked. You know: nice plain clothes and no airs."
"Can you remember what she wore?"
"Oh, yes. She always wore the same things. A green hat and a frock to match it under a pale grey coat. But she never met anyone. And then one day she picked up the man at the next table. You could have knocked me over with a feather."