“We’ve got no French gent a-staying ’ere,” she replied. “You’ve made a mistake.”
“But I saw him enter here last night.”
“You must ’ave been mistaken,” the woman said. “’E might ’ave gone next door. They ’ave a lot of visitors.”
“But you are full up—eh?”
“Yes—with our reg’lar residents,” she answered promptly. But from her nervousness of manner I knew she was not telling the truth. I was positive that Suzor had entered there, but she denied all knowledge of him. Why?
Without a doubt, while I had waited for him to emerge, he had passed out by the back way. If so, was it possible that he had seen and recognized me, and wished to escape unseen?
The house was certainly one of mystery. The woman was palpably perturbed by my inquiry, and she seemed relieved when I turned away with feigned disappointment.
“Try next door,” she suggested, and disappeared.
As I walked along Euston Road in the direction of Tottenham Court Road, I fell to wondering whether that frowsy house was one of those which exist in various quarters of London where thieves and persons hiding from the police can find sanctuary, and whether Suzor, knowing that I had seen him, had escaped me by passing through to the back and thus getting away!
I longed to know the character of the serious conversation he had had with Gabrielle Tennison. That indeed was my object to discover, hence that afternoon I still pursued my bold tactics and at about three o’clock I rang the bell in Longridge Road.