Alphonse elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, protruded his lips, and extended the palms of his hands.
"Alphonse says," remarked McAllister, turning to the group around the table, "Alphonse says that you can search him."
III
McAllister had speculated for a day or two upon the probable identity of the man with the hole in his forehead, and then had finally given it up as a bad job. One didn't like to dig up the past too carefully, anyhow. You never could tell exactly what you might exhume.
The next Sunday afternoon, while running his eyes carelessly over the "personals," his notice was attracted to the following:
Business Opportunities.—Advertiser wants party with four thousand dollars ready cash; can make twelve thousand dollars in five weeks; no scheme, strictly legitimate business transaction; will bear thorough investigation; must act immediately; no brokers; principals only.
Herbert, 319 Herald.
The name sounded familiar. But he didn't know any Herbert. Then there hovered in the penumbra of his consciousness for a moment the ghost of a scarlet dress, an ermine hat. Ah, yes! Herbert was the man with the hole in his forehead that night at Rector's, that Alphonse didn't know. But where had he known that man? He raised his eyes and caught a glimpse of Tomlinson, the saturnine Tomlinson, sitting by a window. Of course! Buncomb—Colonel C. T. P. Buncomb—Tomlinson's high-rolling friend of the Champs-Élysées—turned up in New York as Mr. Herbert—a man who'd triple your money in five weeks! The chain was complete. If he kept his wits about him he might increase the reputation achieved at Blair's. It would require finesse, to be sure, but his experience with Conville had given him confidence. Here was a chance to do a little more detective work on his own account. He replied to the advertisement, inviting an interview. The "Colonel" would probably call, try some old swindling game, McAllister would lure him on, and at the proper moment call in the police. It looked easy sailing.
Accordingly the appointed hour next day found the clubman waiting impatiently at his rooms, and at two o'clock promptly Mr. Herbert was announced. But McAllister was doomed to disappointment. The visitor was not the Colonel at all, and didn't even have a bullet-hole in his forehead. A short, thick-set man, arrayed carefully in a dark blue overcoat, bowed himself in. In his hand he carried a glistening silk hat, and his own countenance was no less shining and urbane. Thick bristly black hair parted mathematically in the middle drooped on either side of his forehead above a pair of snappy black eyes and rather bulbous nose.
McAllister somewhat uneasily invited his guest to be seated.