“When did you see him again?”
“About noon, when he passed through to the lift, and descended into the station. I noticed that he was then wearing a different hat from the one he had on when he arrived from London,” the hall-porter replied.
“When did he take his luggage?”
“About half-past three. A porter took it below, and it was placed in the cloak-room.”
“You didn’t see him again?”
“No, sir. He probably left by a later train that day.”
That was all the information I could gather in that quarter. The remainder of the morning I spent idling about Princes Street, that splendid thoroughfare which has few equals in the world, trying to decide upon my next course of action. I had exhausted Edinburgh, it seemed, and clearly my way lay south again.
Suddenly, on re-entering the hotel to get lunch, a thought occurred to me, and I sought out the hair-dressing department, making inquiry of the man in charge, a fair-haired, well-spoken German.
As soon as I showed him the portrait, he exclaimed:
“Ja! I recollect him—quite well.”