“Passengers from the Perisco, sir?” answered the night-porter.  “There were several of ’em came in last night—­she got into the river about eight-thirty.  It ’ud be a bit after nine o’clock when your friend came in.”

Allerdyke’s mind went back to the meeting at Howden.

“Did you have a lady set off from here in the middle of the night?” he asked, out of sheer curiosity.  “A lady in a motor-car?”

“Oh! that lady,” exclaimed the night-porter, with a grim laugh.  “Ah! nice lot of bother she gave me, too.  She was one of those Perisco passengers—­she got in here with the rest, and booked a room, and went to it all right, and then at half-past twelve down she came and said she wanted to get on, and as there weren’t no trains she’d have a motor-car and drive to catch an express at Selby, or Doncaster, or somewhere.  Nice job I had to get her a car at that time o’ night!—­and me single-handed—­there wasn’t a soul in the office then.  Meet her anywhere, sir?”

“Met her on the road,” replied Allerdyke laconically.  “Was she a foreigner, do you know?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if she was something of that sort,” answered the night-porter.  “Sort that would have her own way at all events.  Here’s the room, sir.”

He paused before the door of a room which stood halfway down a long corridor in the centre of the hotel, and on its panels he knocked gently.

“Every room’s filled on this floor, sir,” he remarked.  “I hope your friend’s a light sleeper, for there’s some of ’em’ll have words to say if they’re roused at four o’clock in the morning.”

“He’s a very light sleeper as a rule,” replied Allerdyke.  He stood listening for the sound of some movement in the room:  “Knock again,” he said, when a minute had passed without response on the part of the occupant.  “Make it a bit louder.”

The night-porter, with evident unwillingness, repeated his summons, this time loud enough to wake any ordinary sound sleeper.  But no sound came from within the room, and after a third and much louder thumping at the door, Allerdyke grew impatient and suspicious.

“This is queer!” he growled.  “My cousin’s one of the lightest sleepers I ever knew.  If he’s in there, there’s something wrong.  Look here! you’ll have to open that door.  Haven’t you got a key?”

“Key’ll be inside, sir,” replied the night-porter.  “But there’s a master-key to all these doors in the office.  Shall I fetch it, then?”

“Do!” said Allerdyke, curtly.  He began to walk up and down the corridor when the man had hurried away, wondering what this soundness of sleep in his cousin meant.  James Allerdyke was not a man who took either drink or drugs, and Marshall’s experience of him was that the least sound awoke him.

“Queer!” he repeated as he marched up and down.  “Perhaps he’s not—­”

The quiet opening of a door close by made him lift his eyes from the carpet.  In the dim light he saw a man looking out upon him—­a man of an unusually thick crop of hair and with a huge beard.  He stared at Allerdyke half angrily, half sulkily; then he closed his door as quietly as he had opened it.  And Allerdyke, turning back to his cousin’s room, mechanically laid his hand on the knob and screwed it round.