Part 38

"Yes, poor young lady!" replied the woman. "She's never been the same since she was taken ill last November. They say she sustained some great shock which so upset her that her mind is now a little affected. Old Mrs. Alford, the servant there, tells me that the poor girl will go a whole day and never open her mouth. She's like one dumb!"

"How very curious!" I remarked. "I wonder what kind of shock it was that caused such a change in her? Was she quite all right before November?"

"Perfectly. She was a bright clever girl, and used often to come in here to me for chocolate and cakes. She was full of life and merriment. It is really pathetic to see her as she is nowadays. She seems to be brooding over something, but what it is nobody can make out."

"Very remarkable," I said. "I've noticed her about, and have wondered at her attitude--like many others, I suppose."

"Yes. Her mother has taken her to a number of mental specialists, I hear, but nobody seems to be able to do her any good. They say she's suffered from some shock, but they can't tell exactly what it is, because the young lady seems to have entirely lost her memory over a certain period."

"Is Mrs. Tennison well off?" I asked.

"No--the reverse, I should think," the baker's wife replied. "I've heard that Mr. Tennison was a very rich man, but when he died it was found that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, and the widow was left very poorly off."

It is curious what intimate knowledge the little tradespeople glean about their neighbours, even in London. From the woman I gathered one or two facts of interest.

I inquired if Mrs. Tennison had many visitors, whereupon she replied in the negative, and added:

"There used to be an Italian gentleman who called very often a few weeks ago. He often walked out with the young lady. Somebody said he was a doctor, but I don't know if he was."

I asked the woman to tell me what he was like, when she gave me an accurate description of the mysterious doctor of the Via Cavezzo!

So Moroni had visited her there--in Longridge Road!

I tried to ascertain if Gaston Suzor had been there also, but my informant had no knowledge of him. She had never seen him walking with Gabrielle Tennison, as she had so often seen the Italian.

I remained for nearly half an hour chatting, retiring, of course, when she was compelled to serve customers, and then I left her and walked round to the house in Longridge Road, where I watched a little while, and then returned to the Carlton.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

THE ABSOLUTE FACTS

"Monsieur Suzor has not yet returned," was the reply of the smart reception-clerk when I inquired for the French banker. "But he is often away for two or three days."

I left the hotel, and taking a taxi to the Euston Road made a thorough examination of the high shabby house with its smoke-grimed lace curtains, a place which bore over the fan-light the words "Private Hotel." In the broad light of day it looked a most dull, uninviting place; more so even than its neighbours. There are many such hotels in the vicinity of Euston Station, and this seemed the most wretched of them all, for the windows had not been cleaned for many months, while the steps badly wanted scrubbing.

After I had thoroughly examined the place in front, I went round to the back, where I discovered, to my surprise, that the house had an exit at the rear through a mews into a drab, dull street which ran parallel. Then, for the first time, the thought occurred to me that on the previous day the Frenchman might have entered by the front door and passed out by the back into the next street!

I waited an hour idling about, and then I went boldly to the door, and knocked.

A black-haired, slatternly woman in a torn and soiled apron opened the door slightly.

"We're full up," she snapped before I could speak. "We haven't any room to let."

"I don't require a room," I replied politely. "I've called to see the French gentleman you have staying here--Monsieur Suzor."

I thought she started at mention of the name, for she still held the door ajar as though to prevent me from peering inside.

"We've got no French gent a-staying 'ere," she replied. "You've made a mistake."

"But I saw him enter here last night."

"You must 'ave been mistaken," the woman said. "'E might 'ave gone next door. They 'ave a lot of visitors."

"But you are full up--eh?"