"What a hotel!" thought the murderer, solitary in the chilly lounge, and gave a glance down the long passage. "Is the whole place run by the hall-porter? But of course it's the dead season."
Was it conceivable that nobody had heard the sound of the shot?
Harder had a strong impulse to run away. But no! To do so would be highly dangerous. He restrained himself.
"How much?" he asked of the hall-porter, who had arrived with a surprising quickness, tray in hand and glass on tray.
"A shilling, sir."
The murderer gave him eighteenpence, and drank off the cocktail.
"Thank you very much, sir." The hall-porter took the glass.
"See here!" said the murderer. "I'll look in again. I've got one or two little errands to do."
And he went, slowly, into the obscurity of the Marine Parade.
Lomax Harder leant over the left arm of the sea-wall of