Part 12 (2/2)

”Himself,” said Sommers, with a chuckle. ”Now's your chance to ask him-for there he goes into the Palm Room.”

We glanced over in the direction indicated, and again our eyes fell upon the muscular form of ”Lord Baskingford.”

”Oh!” said Holmes. ”Well-he is a pretty fair specimen, isn't he! Little too large for my special purpose, though, Sommers,” he added, ”so you needn't wrap him up and send him home.”

”All right, Mr. Holmes,” grinned the clerk. ”Come in again some time when we have a few fresh importations in and maybe we can fix you out.”

With a swift glance at the open page of the register, Holmes bade the clerk good-night and we walked away.

”Room 407,” he said, as we moved along the corridor. ”Room 407-we mustn't forget that. His lords.h.i.+p is evidently expecting some one, and I think I'll fool around for a while and see what's in the wind.”

A moment or two later we came face to face with the baronet, and watched him as he pa.s.sed along the great hall, scanning every face in the place, and on to the steps leading down to the barber-shop, which he descended.

”He's anxious, all right,” said Holmes, as we sauntered along. ”How would you like to take a bite, Jenkins? I'd like to stay here and see this out.”

”Very good,” said I. ”I find it interesting.”

So we proceeded towards the Palm Room and sat down to order our repast. Scarcely were we seated when one of the hotel boys, resplendent in bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, strutted through between the tables, calling aloud in a shrill voice:

”Telegram for four-oh-seven. Four hundred and seven, telegram.”

”That's the number, Raffles,” I whispered, excitedly.

”I know it,” he said, quietly. ”Give him another chance-”

”Telegram for number four hundred and seven,” called the b.u.t.tons.

”Here, boy,” said Holmes, nerving himself up. ”Give me that.”

”Four hundred and seven, sir?” asked the boy.

”Certainly,” said Holmes, coolly. ”Hand it over-any charge?”

”No, sir,” said the boy, giving Raffles the yellow covered message.

”Thank you,” said Holmes, tearing the flap open carelessly as the boy departed.

And just then the fict.i.tious baronet entered the room, and, as Holmes read his telegram, pa.s.sed by us, still apparently in search of the unattainable, little dreaming how close at hand was the explanation of his troubles. I was on the edge of nervous prostration, but Holmes never turned a hair, and, save for a slight tremor of his hand, no one would have even guessed that there was anything in the wind. Sir Henry Darlington took a seat in the far corner of the room.

”That accounts for his uneasiness,” said Holmes, tossing the telegram across the table.

I read: ”Slight delay. Will meet you at eight with the goods.” The message was signed: ”Cato.”

”Let's see,” said Holmes. It is now six-forty-five. Here-lend me your fountain-pen, Jenkins.

I produced the desired article and Holmes, in an admirably feigned hand, added to the message the words: ”at the Abbey, Lafayette Boulevard. Safer,” restored it in amended form to its envelope.

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