“By the six o’clock train—the express to Irun,” I replied.
He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said abruptly in a thick voice:
“I don’t want any lunch. I want to think. Come up to my room when you’ve had your meal,” and then, turning on his heel, he ascended in the lift.
On going to his room after luncheon I found him standing by the window, with his hands in his pockets, looking blankly out upon the great square below.
Close by, upon the writing-table, was a small medicine phial and a camel-hair brush, together with several pieces of paper. It struck me that he had painted one of the pieces with some of the colorless liquid, for, having dried, it was now crinkled in the center.
“Look here, Hargreave,” he said. “I want you to telephone to the girl Andrews and ask her to meet you this afternoon at four, say in the ladies’ café in the Café Suzio, so that you can have tea together. When you’ve done that come back here.”
I obeyed, in wonder at what was intended. Then when I returned, he said:
“Sit down and write a note to the old man, asking him to let you have his address so that you can collect any letters from the Ritz for him and forward them. He’ll think it awfully kind of you. And enclose an envelope addressed to yourself; it will save him trouble.”
This I did, taking paper and envelope from the rack in front of me. I was about to address the envelope to myself, when he said:
“That’s too large, have this one! It will fit in the other envelope,” and he took from the rack one of a smaller size which I used according to his suggestion.