conspicuous figures even in a third-rate
hotel like the Westmorland, and the clerk whom they approached was not
moved to curiosity.

"Mr. Peterson? He's in; came in over an hour ago, and mentioned that he
expected a caller; party to go right up."

"He's expecting us, one or both," Clo cut in hastily. "What's his
number?"

"658, top floor," said the clerk. "The elevator's just over there to the
left--see?"

"We'll go up together," Clo whispered, "and then, if you really think
best to see the man alone, I'll hang about somewhere in the hall till
you come out and call me."

Beverley made no reply. Already she was fathoms deep in thought. The
musty-smelling lift shot them up to the top floor; Beverley, stepping
out ahead of Clo, had the air of having forgotten her existence. The
girl's anxiety deepened. The best she could do was to guide her friend
through dimly lighted, dark-walled corridors, to the right number, 658.
Beverley had, before they left the taxi, given the money and jewels into
her companion's hand. Clo's over-strained nerves began to take their
revenge. This shabby hotel was an evil place. To her it seemed that each
closed door hid something secret and sinister. They met no one between
the elevator and Peterson's room. Involuntarily, the two paused an
instant in front of number 658 before knocking. No sound came from
within. If Peterson were in his room, apparently he was alone. Beverley
tapped--a sharp, nervous tap.

"Come in!" cried a voice which sounded far off, as if the speaker called
from the furthest corner of the room, or from the depths of a wall
cupboard.

"Keep near, but not too near," whispered Beverley, and opened the door.
To her surprise and Clo's there was no light in the room; yet it was not
really dark. The blind on the curtainless window opposite the door was
rolled up to the top, and let in light from the brilliantly illuminated
street six storeys below. As Beverley passed in, Clo caught a glimpse of
a man's figure comfortably seated in a high-backed armchair in front of
the window. She even recognized the mean profile of Peterson, outlined
in black against the luminous square of a window pane, and anger pricked
her that he should dare receive Mrs. Sands without rising. Then the door
shut, and Clo, obeying the order to "keep near, but not too near," took
a few steps down the corridor. Within sight of the door, but not within
hearing of voices on the other side unless they should r