Part 53

"Number 175 was Señor Solier," replied the smart young clerk. "He paid his bill and left just after seven o'clock this morning."

"But I saw his identification papers--his passport--letters addressed to him as Señor Salavera!"

"That may be so, señor," was the suave reply. "But he registered here as Señor Solier." And then he dropped into English, which he spoke very fairly. "Of course people who stay at hotels do not always give their correct names. They do not wish them published in visitors' lists in the newspapers. Perhaps it is only natural," and he smiled.

"Have you any one named Pedro Espada in the hotel?" I inquired.

Again he consulted his register, but shook his head.

"Nobody of that name," he replied.

I hesitated. Then I asked:

"Did the gentleman who spent the night in Room 175 depart alone?"

The reception-clerk called the uniformed concierge, and asked:

"Did Number 175 leave alone?"

"Yes," was the reply. "He caught the early express for Zaragoza. He was going on to Barcelona, he told me. He went in the omnibus."

"No one with him?"

"Nobody."

"When did he arrive?" I asked.

"The night before last. He was alone--with only a handbag. I charged him with a deposit for his room."

"Have you ever seen him before?" I asked.

"Never to my recollection."

"Neither have I," remarked the concierge. "He seemed very afraid of being seen. I noticed him in the lounge last night. He left this morning quite suddenly, and without taking anything--even a cup of coffee."

"He left in a violent hurry--eh?" I exclaimed, well knowing the reason. "Well," I added, "I wish to see the manager."

"I will inform him," the clerk replied, and he went to the telephone. A minute later, after exchanging a few words in Spanish, he turned to me, saying:

"You will find the manager's office on the first floor. If you take the lift the man will direct you, señor."

A few minutes later I was seated in the office of an elderly bald-headed man, a typical hôtelier, courteous, smiling, and eager to hear any complaint that I might have to make.

At once I told him of my curious adventure of the previous night, and of the sudden flight of the mysterious stranger whom I had discovered in my room.

"That is certainly strange, sir," he replied in English. "His excuse was a very ingenious one, to say the least. I think we ought to inform the police. Do you not agree?"

I told him of my discovery of the carpet pins, and asked his advice as to whom I might send them for chemical analysis.

At once he suggested Professor Vega, of the Princesa Hospital in the Calle Alberto Aguilera, adding:

"The Professor often dines here. If you wish, I will take you to him."

So still leaving the three carpet pins upon the little glass tray I wrapped it in paper and together we went round to the hospital, where I was introduced to a tall, narrow-faced, grey-haired man in a long linen coat. To him I explained how I had found the pins on the carpet beside my bed, and asking whether he would submit them to examination.