“Meester Pennington is here; where is he? I am here to speak with him.”
“Pennington was here,” I replied, “but he has gone.”
“Then he only went out this moment! I must see him. He is in the hotel!” my visitor exclaimed quickly.
“I suppose he is,” I replied rather faintly; “we had better ask the waiter. He is not stopping here. He merely came to-night to dine with us.”
“Of course,” said Delanne. “He arrived by the 2.37 train from Bruxelles, went to the Hôtel Dominici, near the Place Vendôme, sent you a petit-bleu, and arrived here at 6.30. I am here because I wish to see him most particularly. I was in Orleans when the news of my friend’s arrival in Paris was telephoned to me—I have only just arrived.”
I opened the door leading to my bedroom, and called my father-in-law, but there was no response. In an instant Delanne dashed past me, and in a few seconds had searched the suite.
“Ah, of course!” he cried, noticing that the door of my wife’s room led back to the main corridor; “my friend has avoided me. He has passed out by this way. Still, he must be in the hotel.”
He hurried back to the salon, and, opening the shutters, took off his hat.
Was it some signal to the watchers outside? Ere I could reach his side, however, he had replaced his hat, and was re-entering the room.
“Phew! this place is stifling hot, my dear friend,” he said. “I wonder you do not have the windows open for a little!”