“The bottle was found on the floor beside the bed,” he said. “When I first saw you I believed you were dead. Your mouth was discolored and your face was as white as paper. Ada, the head chambermaid, went into hysterics.”
“Yes. That’s all very well,” I answered. “But what could have really happened? I only remember that funny sensation of breathlessness and the cold thing pressed to my lips—a bottle I suppose it must have been.”
“Well, to me, it is plain that your entertaining friend from Bradford was not exactly what he represented himself to be,” said Feng, busying himself, and examining the room with the closest attention to every detail. Suddenly he seemed to bristle with excitement, and turning to the manager he asked:—
“Did the man—what is his name—arrive here before Mr. Yelverton?”
“No,” was his reply. “He arrived just after. He gave his name as Harwood and particularly asked for the room he occupied. He seemed to know his way about the hotel quite well. He had no luggage, except a small handbag, therefore he paid for his room on arrival.”
“And when did he leave?”
“I cannot find out. The night-porter says that he did not see him. He must have left very early, but there is no train leaving here in the morning before the 7.49.”
“So he got away by car, no doubt—a car that was waiting for him somewhere,” Feng remarked quickly with his gray brows knit. “Is his bag still here?”
“No. He took it.”
“And none of the servants have ever seen him before?”