Would Lola return to see me?
In the days that followed—bright June days, with the North Sea lying calm and blue below the cliffs—I waited in patience, scarce leaving the hotel all day, in fear lest she might again seek me, and, paying me a visit, find me absent.
Rayner considered me inactive and grumbled in consequence.
He spent his time lolling upon one of the seats on the cliff-top outside the hotel, idly smoking Virginian cigarettes. He had openly expressed his dissatisfaction that I had not made any attempt to follow the mysterious Doctor Arendt and his Italian friend.
Truth to tell, I was utterly confounded.
To follow Jules Jeanjean, now that he had got clean away with Gregory's treasure, would, I felt, be an utterly futile task. He was too clever to leave any trace behind—a past-master in the art of evasion, and a man of a hundred clever disguises.
What would they say at the Prefecture of Police in Paris, when I related to them the strange story of Jeanjean's exploits in England? Was it possible, I wondered, that the master-criminal, finding the Continent of Europe growing a trifle too hot for him, had come to England to follow his nefarious profession. If so, then he would certainly cause a great deal of trouble to the famous Council of Seven at the Criminal Investigation Department in London.
Thus days went on—warm, idle, summer days with holiday visitors daily arriving, houses being repainted, and Cromer putting on her best appearance for the coming "season." Seaside towns always blossom forth into fresh paint in the month of June, window-sashes in white and doors in green. But Cromer, with its golf and high-class music, is essentially a resort of the wealthy, a place where the tripper is unwanted and where there are no importunate long-shoremen suggesting that it is a "Nice day for a bowot, sir!"
Where was Lola? Would she ever return?