She related a rather curious story.
On the previous night, about eleven o’clock, there arrived by car two well-dressed gentlemen who, though English, conversed together in French. They took rooms, but did not retire to bed, saying that they expected two friends who were motoring, and who would arrive in the night. They sat over the fire in the lounge, while the staff of the hotel all retired, save the night-boots, an old retainer. The latter stated that during the night, as he passed the door of the lounge, he saw through the crack of the door the younger of the two men examining something which shone and sparkled in the light, and he thought to be diamonds. This struck him as somewhat curious; therefore he kept a watchful eye upon the pair.
One he described as rather stout, dark, and bald-headed—the exact description of Pennington—and the other description the man afterwards gave to me caused me to feel confident that the second man was none other than the scoundrel Reckitt. What further piece of chicanery had they been guilty of, I wondered?
“About four in the morning a grey car drove up, sir,” went on the boots, “and a lady with a dark cloak over her evening dress dashed in, and they both rose quickly and welcomed her. Then, in order that I should not understand, they again started talking in some foreign language—French I expect it was. A few moments later the gentleman came in. They welcomed him warmly, addressing him by the name of Lewis. I saw the bald-headed man wring his hand heartily, and heard him exclaim: ‘By Jove! old man, you can’t think how glad we are to see you back again! You must have had a narrow squeak! Not another single living man would have acted with the determination and bravery with which you’ve acted. Only you must be careful, Lewis, old man—deuced careful. There are enemies about, you know.’ Then the gentleman said: ‘I know! I’m quite aware of my peril, Arnold. You, too, had a narrow shave in Paris a short time ago—I hear from Sonia.’ ‘Yes,’ laughed the other, ‘she acted splendidly. But, as you say, it was a very close thing. Have you seen Shuttleworth yet?’ he asked. The other said: ‘He met me, in the Ditches at Southampton, two nights ago, and told me all that’s happened.’ ‘Ah! And Sonia has told you the rest, I suppose?’ he asked; to which the other man replied in the affirmative, adding: ‘It’s a bad job, I fear, for Owen Biddulph—a very bad job for the fellow!’ That was all the conversation that I overheard at that time, for they then rang the bell and ordered whisky and sodas.”
“And what else did you see or hear?” I asked eagerly, much puzzled by his statement.
“They struck me as rather a suspicious lot, sir,” the man said. “After I had taken them in their drinks they closed the door, and seemed to hold some sort of a consultation. While this was going on, two men drove up in another car, and asked if a Mr. Winton was here. I told him he was—for the bald-headed gentleman had given the name of Douglas Winton. They were at once welcomed, and admitted to the conference.”
“Rather curious—to hold a conference in such a manner and at such an hour!” I remarked.
“Yes, sir. It was a secret meeting, evidently. They all spoke in another language. The two men who last arrived were no doubt foreigners.”
“Was one of them stout and wore gold-rimmed glasses?” I inquired quickly.