A new and highly interesting feature had arisen in the fact which I had only recently discovered, that Suzor had apparently travelled with me from York to London on that well-remembered afternoon with some set and distinct purpose. He had been most affable, and he had told me all about himself—a story which I now knew to be fictitious. In return, I suppose I had told him something about myself, but the exact conversation had long ago escaped my memory.
I had had no suspicion that the man who had posed as an important official of one of the best known of French banking corporations was in any way associated with the mysterious Oswald De Gex, until I had seen him meet in secret the girl with whom I had fallen so violently in love.
I tried to analyse my feelings towards Gabrielle Tennison, but failed utterly. I loved her, and loving her so well, I now set my whole soul upon elucidating the mystery.
Truly, the problem was most puzzling, presenting further complications at every turn.
Through the day I idled about the big hotel, occupying my time in writing letters and reading the papers. The café below in the late afternoon was crowded, for on the day of a fiesta Madrid is always agog with life and movement.
When night fell and I ate my solitary dinner in the big restaurant, where I specially ordered an olla with garbanoz, a dish so dear to the Spanish palate and which cannot be procured beyond the confines of King Alfonso’s kingdom. The waiter aided me, of course, and he smiled contentedly when I gave him his propina.
Around me there dined as smart a set of people as those who frequented the Carlton in London, and perhaps the toilettes were even more elaborate. In certain feminine details the West End can be eclipsed both by modern Madrid and Bucharest, while Paris remains where she has ever been, the inventor of feminine fashion and the alluring City of Light.
In Madrid to-day one has all the pre-war prosperity combined with post-war extravagance. The latest mode of the Rue de la Paix is seen at the Ritz in Madrid almost before it is seen at Armenonville, and it becomes only second-hand when it has filtered through Dover Street—or “Petticoat Lane,” as that thoroughfare is termed by truculent London bachelors.
After dinner I spent an hour at the gay Café Iberia, in the Carrera de San Jeronimo, and returned early to the hotel.
As I entered the concierge met me with a note. It was from Harry Hambledon, written an hour before, urging me to meet him at the Gato Negro Café (The Black Cat), in the Calle del Principe.