"At eight o'clock, then--number 10 b, Hill Street," Hilditch
concluded.
Francis bowed and turned away with a murmured word of polite
assent. Outside, he found Wilmore deep in the discussion of the
merits of various old brandies with an interested maitre d'hotel.
"Any choice, Francis?" his host enquired.
"None whatever," was the prompt reply, "only, for God's sake,
give me a double one quickly!"
The two men were on the point of departure when Oliver Hilditch
and his wife left the restaurant. As though conscious that they
had become the subject of discussion, as indeed was the case,
thanks to the busy whispering of the various waiters, they passed
without lingering through the lounge into the entrance hall,
where Francis and Andrew Wilmore were already waiting for a
taxicab. Almost as they appeared, a new arrival was ushered
through the main entrance, followed by porters carrying luggage.
He brushed past Francis so closely that the latter looked into
his face, half attracted and half repelled by the waxen-like
complexion, the piercing eyes, and the dignified carriage of the
man whose arrival seemed to be creating some stir in the hotel.
A reception clerk and a deputy manager had already hastened
forward. The newcomer waved them back for a moment. Bareheaded,
he had taken Margaret Hilditch's hands in his and raised them to
his lips.
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