old Unicorn to tea.

We had sat down when, chancing to glance around, I saw, to my
surprise, seated in a corner alone, the handsome Madame Martoz, who
had had that confidential interview with Lola's father some days
before. Our recognition was mutual, I saw, for she lowered her dark
eyes and busied herself with the teapot before her. Yet I noticed that
with covert glances she was still regarding us with some curiosity.

Ten minutes later a tall, swarthy-faced man with well-trimmed black
mustache, a typical Spaniard, lounged in and sat at her table, while
she gave him tea. Mr. Lloyd, Lola and Mrs. Charlesworth were busily
chatting, but I noted that the Spanish woman whispered some words to
her companion which caused him to glance in our direction. Afterwards
they both rose and went out.

Later, when we had finished our tea, I went to the office in order to
pay--for on such excursions I always paid on Rayne's behalf--and when
doing so, I asked casually:

"Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here--a Mr. Larroca?"

"No, sir," replied the rather stout, pleasant bookkeeper. "We have a
Mr. Bellido, a Spanish gentleman. He's just gone out with Madame
Calleja, who is also Spanish, though they both speak English well."

I thanked her and rejoined my party. At least I had ascertained the
names under which they were known, for Larroca was no doubt the real
name of Bellido.

What mischief was intended? It was evident that we had been purposely
sent by Rayne to that hotel in Ripon in order that Madame and her
accomplice should see us, so that we could be identified again.
Certainly it was unnecessary for them to see Lola, Mrs. Charlesworth
or myself. We had, I felt convinced, made that excursion in order that
old Mr. Lloyd should be seen and known to the mysterious pair.

Two days afterwards our guests dispersed, but Mr. Lloyd, pressed by
Madame Duperre, remained behind.

To me he seemed one of those wealthy, rather faddy men whom one
encounters sometimes in the best hotels, men who move up and down the
country aimlessly during the spring and summer and in winter go abroad
for a few months; men with piles of well-battered and be-labelled
baggage whose home is always in hotels and whose chief object in life
is to dress in the fashion of the younger generation, to be seen
everywhere, to give cosy little luncheon and dinner-parties, and be
the "fairy" uncle of any pretty girl they may come across.

We have lots of such in E