“The Berliner-Tageblatt it was, I expect.”
“Yes. That’s the paper, sir,” said the woman. “’E used to be very fond of it, till I couldn’t get it any more.”
“Then he may be German?”
The woman bent over the narrow counter of her small establishment and whispered:
“I’m quite certain ’e is, sir.”
That night Seymour saw his well-beloved in the theatre between the acts, and told her the result of his inquiries. Then he returned to his vigil and watched the dingy house in Tenison Street, one of those drab London streets in which the sun never seems to shine.
For three nights Kennedy remained upon constant vigil. On the fourth night, just as Ella was throwing off her stage dress at the conclusion of the show, she received a telegram which said: “Gone north. Return soon. Wait.”
It was unsigned, but she knew its sender.
Four days she waited in eager expectation of receiving news. On the fifth night, just before she left for the theatre, Ortmann arrived to visit her father. She greeted him merrily, but quickly escaped from that detestable atmosphere of conspiracy, at the same time remembering that mysterious female intruder.
Who could she have been?