“That dark man at supper over there,” and she indicated his whereabouts with her eyes.
“Oh, that is Monsieur Alphonse Michaud,” Jessica replied at once. “A remarkable character, according to all accounts. He is the director, and I suppose proprietor of the Metropolitan Secret Agency in London.”
“That man is? But I thought Mr. Stothert and the woman called Camille Lenoir were the directors.”
Jessica laughed.
“Have some more lobster, dear,” she said. “No, Stothert and Lenoir are merely managers, just salaried people like other managers. But when have you been to the Metropolitan Agency?”
“I went there at the time of that horrible affair at the Albert Hall ball, when they thought I had stolen Mrs. Stringborg’s necklace. I can’t bear to think of it, even now. It seems like a nightmare still.”
“Of course—I had forgotten. By the way, was that mystery ever cleared up?”
“I believe not. The whole thing was most singular.”
“Didn’t the Metropolitan Agency find out anything? They are generally so clever.”
“Nothing of importance,” Yootha answered quickly. “Oh, yes, that is the man,” she said, looking again at the dark-haired stranger who had just risen from supper with his friends, three flashily-dressed women. “There is no mistaking him. The portrait is a striking likeness.”