In that huge, garish café, with its great arc lamps glowing though night had not yet fallen, and with a noisy orchestra playing selections from the latest crazes of music from the revues in London, I sat with a perfectly open mind. I had been the victim of some extremely clever plot. But of its motive, of its ramifications, or of its conception, I had no knowledge. Even my wildest imagination was at fault.
All I knew was that the sallow-faced De Gex—the millionaire who lived up at the huge Villa Clementini—had plotted against the handsome girl, and she had died in his wife’s bedroom in Stretton Street.
“Well, Mr. Robertson, how can I find out anything more about Miss Thurston? Give me your advice.”
“I’ll try and see what I can do,” he said. “Perhaps I may be able to get a glance at the mistress’s address book. I have seen it. I’ll try.”
“Yes—do!” I said very anxiously. “It means so very much to me.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. My intention was to mislead both of my companions.
“Well,” I said with a laugh, “the fact is, I—I’m very fond of her!”
Both men exchanged glances. Then they smiled, almost imperceptibly, I know, but it struck them as humorous that I had fallen in love with the daughter of a wealthy American.
“Of course I’m not yet certain whether she is the same lady,” I went on. “She may not be. But on calm consideration I believe she is. The description you give of her is exact.”