"Then we cannot see Dr. Peterssen," I said.
"No, you can't," replied Crawley. "He's gone for good."
"I owe you," said Bob, in a bland voice, "ten shillings. Here's the money. Do you want to earn a ten-pound note, which might swell into fifty? There's a gentleman friend of ours who would stand that, and more perhaps, for services rendered."
"What kind of services?" inquired Crawley, pocketing the ten shillings.
"Information. Truthful and accurate information. The ten pound note sure. That much we guarantee, and wouldn't mind giving half on account. The fifty-pound almost as sure. Here, let me speak to you aside."
They walked a little way from us, and I did not interrupt their conversation, which lasted some twenty minutes. At the end of that time Bob left Crawley to say a few words to me.
"Go back to the inn," he said, "you and Sophy, and wait for me. Will join you there in an hour or so. Crawley and I going to have a drink."
I obeyed him without wasting time in asking questions, and Sophy and I returned to the inn. It was a disappointment that a telegram from Emilia had not arrived. But before Bob made his appearance an incident occurred which profoundly agitated me. I was sitting at the table, making, as was usual with me, a record of what had happened, in the doing of which I had occasion to take some papers from my pockets. Among these papers which I placed on the table was the photograph of Gerald Paget which I had found in M. Felix's room, his name being written on the back. While I wrote, Sophy remained quiet. The girl has a discretion; she knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue. My writing done I took up the papers to put them in my pocket, and in doing so the photograph dropped to the ground. Sophy stooped and picked it up, and was about to give it to me, when her eyes fell on it.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "If it ain't the pickcher of Number One!"
"What?" I cried.