On the evening of the fourteenth there stepped from the hotel omnibus—a smartly dressed young Frenchwoman, carrying a little sable Pomeranian dog and followed by a porter with her luggage.
Luigi met her in the hall, and, with his heels clicked together in his usual attitude of welcome, received her with an exquisite bow. She engaged a room, signed the visitors’ book in the usual way, and then allowed Battini to conduct her up by the lift. As she passed me our eyes met, but without the slightest sign of recognition. Even though the newly arrived guest was none other than my smartest assistant, Madame Gabrielle Soyez.
Next day, in consequence of a note I sent her, we met in one of the sitting-rooms in the further, and at the present moment unoccupied—wing of the hotel. She then told me that her own sitting-room was next to one occupied by a Swedish engineer named Oscar Engström, whom I had watched in Lisbon a month before and who was now in Switzerland engaged on some mysterious business which we had not been able to fathom. We strongly suspected, however, from various bits of evidence that had reached us, that the man was in the pay of Germany at the moment, even if he were not one of the regular German agents.
When I entered, Madame Gabrielle, smartly attired in a tailor-made gown of navy-blue cloth and a very bewitching hat, was standing at the window, with her pet dog beneath her arm, chatting to the immaculate Luigi, gazing the while on the blue waters of the lake.
I found myself reflecting how typically French she was in every detail—dainty in face and figure, immaculately dressed, and possessing that indefinably vivacious great charm which seems to be the monopoly of the cultured Frenchwoman. She could throw it aside when she chose, such was her wonderful versatility, and assume a mask of dullness and stupidity sufficient to ensure that no one meeting her would give her a second glance. It was a valuable accomplishment, and more than once had carried her safely through a difficult and dangerous situation.
To-day, among friends, she was her own sunny self. “Ah, Monsieur Gerald,” she cried, springing forward to greet me, “our friend Luigi has been telling me some very strange things—eh?”
“I have told Madame pretty well all I know,” said the suave Italian, in excellent English; “but it is not much. Engström has engaged a room for a lady friend—a Madame Bohman.”
“Swedish also?” I queried, with a smile. “When does our friend expect Mr Thornton, as he calls himself?”
“He is expected any moment,” replied Luigi; “he has retained his room ever since he left for London.”
“Good!” I said. And we all three sat down and plunged into an intricate discussion of every detail concerning the suspects and our plan of campaign.