Part 51

It occurred to me that Suzor had come from Madrid to fetch her, and that surmise later proved to be correct, for on returning to the capital at ten o'clock Hambledon called at the Hôtel de la Paix, and as we sat upstairs in my bedroom he informed me that the young girl had arrived by car at the Ritz and had dined with De Gex and his companion. The countess, who had apparently been in Madrid since the morning, and who had attended a charity matinée at the Comedia, had arrived at the Ritz a quarter of an hour before her niece. It was evident, therefore, that they were well known to De Gex, who, as I afterwards ascertained, had been a friend of the late count.

The four had dined privately together in Suzor's sitting-room, and according to the information given to Hambledon by the concierge, a number of papers had been produced and examined immediately after the coffee had been served.

"I understand that the production of the papers had a most disturbing effect upon the countess," Hambledon told me. "She gave vent to a cry of amazement, and afterwards burst into a fit of tears. At least that is what the waiter told the concierge. The countess is very well known at the Ritz, for she moves in the Court circle, and is often at the smart functions so constantly held there."

"And the niece?" I asked. "She is certainly both smart and good-looking."

"I can discover but little concerning her," Harry replied. "She is not known at all. She has apparently only gone to live with her aunt at Segovia since the count's death."

"I wonder what was in the papers which so affected the lady?" I remarked. "De Gex evidently invited them to dinner in order to make some disclosure, and to prove it by the production of documents."

"Evidently," replied my companion. "In any case, the countess and her niece have just started to return for home, the widow being very upset at what has been revealed to her to-night."

"What can it have been, I wonder? Could not the waiter ascertain the nature of the disclosure?"

"No. I saw him myself afterwards, and he explained that the documents in question were produced just after he had left the room. He heard the countess utter a cry of dismay, and when he again entered the room in pretence of clearing away the coffee-cups, he found the lady in tears, while her niece declared hotly in French: 'I do not believe it! I will never believe it!' A number of legal documents were spread out upon the table, and De Gex was holding one of them in his hand."

"Then the object of the visit of the precious pair seems to have been to disclose some hitherto well-guarded secret to the widow of the Spanish financier--eh?"

"Yes," my friend agreed. "It certainly seems so," and then he rose and left. Downstairs in the palm court the gay crowd was pouring through to the restaurant for supper after the theatre, for smart Madrid is gay at night, and there is as much dancing and fun there, on a smaller scale of course, as there is in the West End. The pretty dresses, the laughter, the sibilant whispers, and the claw-hammer coat are the same in Madrid and Bucharest as in London or Paris, or any other capital. The hour of midnight is the same hour of relaxation when even judges smile after their day upon the bench, and the blue-stocking will laugh at a risky story.

So after Harry had gone, refusing to have supper with me lest somebody should notice us together, I strolled about, and selecting a table in the corner, ate my solitary meal, having had no dinner that day.

It was past midnight before I ascended in the lift to my room. I undressed and when in bed I read the Heraldo until I suppose I dropped off to sleep.

I knew nothing until later I was awakened by some slight movement. In an instant I was seized by a strange intuition of danger, and my wits became acute. Next second I was on the alert. There had been three lights burning when I retired, now there was but one. I had bolted my door, yet it was now slightly ajar!

I lay and listened. Outside I heard the hum of a car receding across the great square. Afterwards a church bell began to clang discordantly, as they all do in Spain.

The light was over the dressing-table in the corner, and so shaded that the room was quite dim.

Someone had been in my room! I grasped my automatic pistol which I kept under the pillow, and jumping out of bed crossed to the dressing-table where I had put my watch and bank-note-case on taking them from my pocket. As I did so I heard the click of an electric light switch, and next instant the room was in darkness.

For a second I was nonplussed. I knew, however, that I was not alone in the room, so I dashed across to the door, my pistol in my hand, and gaining it before the intruder could escape, turned on the lights.

Before me stood revealed a tall, thin-faced, dark-haired man in his shirt and trousers who, seeing my pistol, at once put up his hands, crying in Spanish:

"Ah! no--no! It is a mistake. Holy Madonna! I have mistaken the room! I thought my friend Pedro was here! A thousand apologies, señor! A thousand apologies."

"But my door was bolted! How did you get in?" I demanded fiercely.

"No, señor. It was not bolted. I have been taken very unwell. I was seeking my friend Pedro," he stammered, pale and frightened. "Come to my room, and I will show you my papers to prove that I am no thief, but a well-known advocate of Burgos."

I told him roughly to turn his face to the wall while I went through my belongings to satisfy myself that nothing had been stolen.

All seemed in order, and the fellow's explanation seemed to be quite feasible--save for the fact that I distinctly remembered bolting the door. Nevertheless I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him.

"Come along to my room, señor," he urged. "I will show you my identity papers. I have to offer you a thousand apologies."

I followed him to a room near the end of the corridor, where he quickly produced documents and papers showing that his name was Juan Salavera, an advocate, who lived in the Calle de Vittoria, in Burgos. He showed me the portrait of his wife and child which he carried in his wallet and a small painted miniature of his mother, and other proofs of his integrity, including a case well filled with notes.

"I trust, señor, that you will no longer accuse me of being a thief!" he said. "Our encounter would have been distinctly amusing had we not so frightened each other as we have done."

I laughed, for I felt convinced that he was a respectable person, and I really began to feel uncomfortable.