Further extraordinary revelations concerning the murder on the
_Avonmouth_ have just come to hand, from which it appears that
the deceased was a man in woman's clothes.
"What made him go on?" I asked.
Mr. Thomson smiled.
"A little information I whispered to him," he said, "concerning the
movements of some of his cutthroat friends from Russia. They were hard
on his track, as this paragraph proves."
"And what about--the other one?" Rose asked, in a stifled, breathless
voice--"the one I travelled up with?"
"Andrea," Mr. Thomson replied. "I am afraid, Miss Mindel, that he is a
very bad lot indeed. If I had not been sure that your protection was
adequate, I should certainly have hesitated before I asked you to play
Delilah."
"I am still wondering," Rose murmured, "what has become of him."
Mr. Thomson had been watching the progress of three men through the
crowded restaurant. By a silent gesture he invited her attention to
them. The foremost figure was the man whom we had known as Andrea
Kinlosti, behind him the two unobtrusive-looking men who had passed
through the restaurant a few minutes before. Kinlosti looked neither to
the right nor to the left; his cheeks were ashen pale, his dark eyes
more brilliant and sunken than ever. The two men who followed watched
his every movement with catlike intensity. When they had passed into the
lounge, they drew one on either side of him.
"He is in luck," Mr. Thomson said grimly. "Scotland Yard has a pretty
black record against him since his last visit to England, six or seven
years ago, but if it had been the others--I don't think they would have
been so kind to him as they were to his brother. And now that's the end
of my story," he went on, in an altered tone. "Miss Mindel, I am assured
that this young turkey is as tender as the chestnut stuffing. Lister,
you ought to have an appetite, for I did you out of your lunch. Cotton,
a glass of wine with you."
I think that a certain callousness, born of our recent adventures, was
finding its way into our natures, for each one of us responded
cheerfully to our host's invitation. There was one--the great
question--however, which I could not refrain from asking.
"About those jewels, sir--where are they?" I asked.
Mr. Thomson scratched his chin.
"Young man," he replied, "don't you think you'd be better off without
knowing where half a million pounds' worth of jewels are?"
"That isn't what I meant," I persisted. "You seem to have recovered them
from the original thieves. What are you going to do about it?"
Mr. Thomson smiled.
"Let me see," he observed, "that will be Conundrum Number Two."