A waiter conjured the bill from some recess of his waistcoat and served it on a clean plate to the American. Another ran bawling for the vestiaire. Roddy glued his gaze afresh to the Daily Mail. The party rose.
Lanyard noticed that the American signed instead of settling the bill with cash, indicating that he resided at Troyon’s as well as dined there. And the adventurer found time to reflect that it was odd for such as he to seek that particular establishment in preference to the palatial modern hostelries of the Rive Droit—before De Morbihan, ostensibly for the first time espying Lanyard, plunged across the room with both hands outstretched and a cry of joyous surprise not really justified by their rather slight acquaintanceship.
“Ah! Ah!” he clamoured vivaciously. “It is Monsieur Lanyard, who knows all about paintings! But this is delightful, my friend—one grand pleasure! You must know my friends. … But come!”
And seizing Lanyard’s hands, when that one somewhat reluctantly rose in response to this surprisingly over-exuberant greeting, he dragged him willy-nilly from behind his table.
“And you are American, too. Certainly you must know one another. Mademoiselle Bannon—with your permission—my friend, Monsieur Lanyard. And Monsieur Bannon—an old, dear friend, with whom you will share a passion for the beauties of art.”
The hand of the American, when Lanyard clasped it, was cold, as cold as ice; and as their eyes met that abominable cough laid hold of the man, as it were by the nape of his neck, and shook him viciously. Before it had finished with him, his sensitively coloured face was purple, and he was gasping, breathless—and infuriated.
“Monsieur Bannon,” De Morbihan explained disconnectedly—“it is most distressing—I tell him he should not stop in Paris at this season—”
“It is nothing!” the American interposed brusquely between paroxysms.
“But our winter climate, monsieur—it is not fit for those in the prime of health—”
“It is I who am unfit!” Bannon snapped, pressing a handkerchief to his lips—“unfit to live!” he amended venomously.
Lanyard murmured some conventional expression of sympathy. Through it all he was conscious of the regard of the girl. Her soft brown eyes met his candidly, with a look cool in its composure, straightforward in its enquiry, neither bold nor mock-demure. And if they were the first to fall, it was with an effect of curiosity sated, without hint of discomfiture. … And somehow the adventurer felt himself measured, classified, filed away.
Between amusement and pique he continued to stare while the elderly American recovered his breath and De Morbihan jabbered on with unfailing vivacity; and he thought that this closer scrutiny discovered in her face contours suggesting maturity of thought beyond her apparent years—which were somewhat less than the sum of Lanyard’s—and with this the suggestion of an elusive, provoking quality of wistful languor, a hint of patient melancholy. …
“We are off for a glimpse of Montmartre,” De Morbihan was explaining—“Monsieur Bannon and I. He has not seen Paris in twenty years, he tells me. Well, it will be amusing to show him what changes have taken place in all that time. One regrets mademoiselle is too fatigued to accompany us. But you, my friend—now if you would consent to make our third, it would be most amiable of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Lanyard excused himself; “but as you see, I am only just in from the railroad, a long and tiresome journey. You are very good, but I—”
“Good!” De Morbihan exclaimed with violence. “I? On the contrary, I am a very selfish man; I seek but to afford myself the pleasure of your company. You lead such a busy life, my friend, romping about Europe, here one day, God-knows-where the next, that one must make one’s best of your spare moments. You will join us, surely?”
“Really I cannot tonight. Another time perhaps, if you’ll excuse me.”
“But it is always this way!” De Morbihan explained to his friends with a vast show of mock indignation. “ ‘Another time, perhaps’—his invariable excuse! I tell you, not two men in all Paris have any real acquaintance with this gentleman whom all Paris knows! His reserve is proverbial—‘as distant as Lanyard,’ we say on the boulevards!” And turning again to the adventurer, meeting his cold stare with the De Morbihan grin of quenchless effrontery—“As you will, my friend!” he granted. “But should you change your mind—well, you’ll have no trouble finding us. Ask any place along the regular route. We see far too little of one another, monsieur—and I am most anxious to have a little chat with you.”
“It will be an honour,” Lanyard returned formally. …
In his heart he was pondering several most excruciating methods of murdering the man. What did he mean? How much did he know? If he knew anything, he must mean ill, for assuredly he could not be ignorant of Roddy’s business, or that every other word he uttered was rivetting suspicion on Lanyard of identity with the Lone Wolf, or that Roddy was listening with all his ears and staring into the bargain!
Decidedly something must be done to silence this animal, should it turn out he really did know anything! …
It was only after profound reflection over his liqueur (while Roddy devoured his Daily Mail and washed it down with a third bottle of Bass) that Lanyard summoned the maitre-d’hôtel and asked for a room.
It would never do to fix the doubts of the detective by going elsewhere that night. But, fortunately, Lanyard knew that warren which was Troyon’s as no one else knew it; Roddy would find it hard to detain him, should events seem to advise an early departure.
IV
A Stratagem
When the maitre-d’hôtel had shown him all over the establishment (innocently enough, en route, furnishing him with a complete list of his other guests and their rooms: memoranda readily registered by a retentive memory) Lanyard chose the bedchamber next that occupied by Roddy, in the second storey.
The consideration influencing this selection
