the restaurant was, money was plentiful in the neighbourhood, and clients as shabby as these two seldom presented themselves. He pointed them out to a maître d'hôtel, who in his turn whispered a few words concerning them to a dark, lantern-jawed man, with keen eyes and a hard mouth, who was dining by himself. The latter glanced at them and nodded.
"Thank you, Charles," he said, "I've had my eye on them. The girl's a pauper, daughter of that old fool Grimes, the actor. Does a little typewriting—precious little, I should think, from the look of her. The man's interesting. Don't talk about them. Understand?"
The maître d'hôtel bowed.
"I understand, Inspector. Not much any one can tell you, sir."
"Pays his bill in American money, I suppose?" the diner asked.
"I'll ascertain for you, Mr. Dane," Charles replied. "I believe he is an Englishman."
"Name of Merton Ware," the inspector agreed, nodding, "just arrived from Jamaica. Writes some sort of stuff which the girl with him typewrites. That's his story. He's probably as harmless as a baby."
Charles bowed and moved away. His smile was inscrutable.
