“Yes. He was found on the road last evening, murdered.”
“Zo!” gasped the German, staring at his visitor. “Killed!”
“Yes; stabbed to death fifteen miles from here, and his motor-cycle was missing. It is a mystery.”
“Astounding!” exclaimed Herr Strantz. “He took tea mit a lady over at the hotel. I saw them there when I went off duty at half-past three o’clock.”
“I know. The police are now searching for that lady.”
“Dey will not have much difficulty in finding her, I suppose—hein?” the engineer replied. “I myself know her by sight.”
“You know her!” cried the Englishman. “Why, I thought you only arrived here from Germany two days ago. Where have you met her?”
“In Bremen, at the Krone Hotel, about three months ago. She call herself Fräulein Montague, and vos awaiting her mother who vos on her way from New York.”
“Did she recognise you?”
“I think not. I never spoke to her in the hotel. She was always a very reserved but very shrewd young lady,” replied Herr Otto Strantz, slowly but grammatically. “I was surprised to meet her again.”