them as soon as I read this in the paper. Oh yes—no mistake!"
"Where did you see them, and when?" asked Nottidge.
"It is three nights ago from last night. At Cipriani's Restaurant, in Tottenham Court Road, where I work—I am waiter there—been there four years. Name of Marco. Mr. Cipriani, you go ask him, he give me first-class character. Honest!"
"All right, Marco! Now tell what you know about these ladies."
"Well, it is like this. Just before eight o'clock that evening, a gentleman comes into the restaurant and seats himself at my table, see? I go to him—he say he is expecting two ladies to join him in a few minutes and will take an aperitif till they come. I serve him—he lights a cigarette, sips his aperitif, and waits. Just about eight———"
"Stop a bit," interrupted Wedgwood. "What was this gentleman like? Describe him."
"Oh, I don't know! Just an ordinary gentleman—well-dressed. Middle-aged, I think. Dark moustache. Might be a Frenchman."
"You didn't observe him very particularly!"
"Well, not so very. See a great many like
