of him at the hotel.

"The Normandie?" The dark man looked puzzled. "I know Roville pretty
well by report, but I've never heard of any Hotel Normandie. Where is
it?"

"It's a little shanty down near the station. Not much of a place.
Still, it's cheap, and the cooking's all right."

His companion's bewilderment increased.

"What on earth is a man like Scrymgeour doing there?" he said. Sally
was conscious of an urgent desire to know more and more about the absent
Scrymgeour. Constant repetition of his name had made him seem almost
like an old friend. "If there's one thing he's fussy about..."

"There are at least eleven thousand things he's fussy about,"
interrupted the red-haired young man disapprovingly. "Jumpy old
blighter!"

"If there's one thing he's particular about, it's the sort of hotel he
goes to. Ever since I've known him he has always wanted the best. I
should have thought he would have gone to the Splendide." He mused on
this problem in a dissatisfied sort of way for a moment, then seemed to
reconcile himself to the fact that a rich man's eccentricities must be
humoured. "I'd like to see him again. Ask him if he will dine with me at
the Splendide to-night. Say eight sharp."

Sally, occupied with her dogs, whose numbers had now been augmented by a
white terrier with a black patch over its left eye, could not see the