“Well, true, I've not fallen far below you as yet,” agreed Pointer in a cheered-up tone of voice. “I've already lost Mr. Beale, missed Cox, and can't find Eames' bag nor any trace of its whereabouts.”
The two men laughed.
“As for Mr. Smalltoes,—I mean the man who stood on the canvas and walked out and then back through the little side door—I don't know where to place him yet. Centre or circumference.”
“You mean Beale?”
“He may prove to be, but Mr. Beale picks his feet up as neatly as a water-rail; this man dragged his along. Mr. Beale wears pointed shoes; this man had on curious ‘reformed’ or ‘true-shaped’ boots. Straight on the inside and curving sharply about in a semicircle. Here's the outline.” He held it out to O'Connor, who asked:
“What are the manager's feet like?”
“Two sizes larger. Well, this case is going to make or break me. I feel it in my bones.”
Next morning Pointer was early at the Yard mapping out the day's campaign. As he expected, on telegraphing to the American Embassy he was assured that Mr. Augustus P. Beale, a sub-editor and part proprietor of the New York Universe, a small gentleman, very bald, with reddish moustache, and gold fillings in his front teeth, was one of the States' choicest ornaments, a man of vast wealth and many interests. To clinch matters, one of Lester's snapshots was sent off to the Embassy, who sent back an immediate reply that this was undoubtedly the Mr. Beale whom all Americans abroad had been instructed to honour. If he were missing, he must be missed, until such time as it might please him to re-appear.
“Just so,” sighed Pointer as he hung up the receiver. His first outing was to the small confectioner-tobacconist near the hotel which he had marked in his yesterday's rambles.
“Any letter for Mr. Eames? He's ill.”