What, after all, could he have told them?
And that question he turned over in his mind while he ate his luncheon.
Hanaud wrote a letter between the courses.

They were sitting at a corner table, and Hanaud was in the corner with his back to the wall.
He moved his plate, too, over the letter as he wrote it.

It would have been impossible for either of his guests to see what he had written, even if they had wished.

Ricardo, indeed, did wish.

He rather resented the secrecy with which the detective, under a show of openness, shrouded his thoughts and acts.