And a moment later the quaint figure was lost in the darkness.
An hour later, though past midnight, I despatched two long telegrams—one to Frémy in Brussels, and the other to Edwards in London.
Then, two days later, by dint of an excuse that I had urgent business in Ostend, I found myself with Phrida and Mrs. Shand, duly installed, in rooms overlooking the long, sunny Digue, one of the finest sea-promenades in Europe.
Ostend had begun her season, the racing season had commenced, and all the hotels had put on coats of new, white paint, and opened their doors, while in the huge Kursaal they played childish games of chance now that M. Marquet was no longer king—yet the magnificent orchestra was worth a journey to listen to.
On the afternoon of our arrival, all was gay and bright; outside the blue sea, the crowd of well-dressed promenaders, and the golden sands where the bathing was so merry and so chic.
But I had no eyes for the beauties or gaiety of the place. I sat closeted in my room with two friends, Frémy and Edwards, whom I introduced and who quickly fraternised.
A long explanatory letter I had written to Brussels had reached Frémy before his departure from the capital.
"Excellent," he was saying, his round, clean-shaven face beaming. "This Peruvian evidently knows where they are, and like all natives, wants to make a coup-de-theatre. I've brought two reliable men with me from Brussels, and we ought—if they are really here—to make a good capture."
"Miss Shand knows nothing, you say?" Edwards remarked, seated on the edge of my bed.
"No. This man Senos was very decided upon the point."