“Then Pujalet is here—still at the hotel,” said Hubert, for he at once realised the object of Lola’s visit there.
“Si, signore. Presently I will tell you what I have by the merest chance discovered,” Pucci replied. “But we must be extremely wary—or the Princess may see us. She is evidently on her way to the hotel to meet your friend the Frenchman. We will let her go, and follow quickly afterwards. Last night a complot was afoot—some desperate plot—But my suspicions were aroused, and by some action of yours—I know not what—it was frustrated.”
“But what do you know, Pucci?” Hubert Waldron demanded breathlessly. “Tell me quickly.”
“I will tell you presently—after we have ascertained the motive of this journey of Her Highness,” replied the detective quietly. “Ah! I am glad you have come here, Signor Waldron. There is something in progress which is an entire mystery to me—something which I believe that you alone will be able to explain.”
“But you have said there was a plot which was frustrated last night. Of what was its nature?” The detective did not reply. His head was turned towards the roadway, which his quick eyes were watching intently.
“Her Highness has gone up to the hotel,” he said. “Let us hasten and watch. I will explain all later. Come—we have not time to lose. This fellow, Flobecq, is a very slippery customer.”
“Flobecq!” echoed Hubert Waldron, starting in amazement.
“Yes. His name is Flobecq, yet I suppose that is not the name by which you know him—eh?”
“Flobecq!” gasped Hubert Waldron. “You are dreaming. Surely that is not his name.”
“Yes, signore, I tell you it is. His name is Mijoux Flobecq!”