The clerk became a little cold.
“We act for him, sir. You can approach him through us.”
“Ah! Zen he live—som’wheres near?”
“I am not at liberty to give his address. We are in a confidential position in these matters. If you like to write, we will forward your letter with pleasure.”
Again baffled!
Geoletti considered gloomily: then shook his head.
“Wait, while I see ze house,” he said; and walked off with his order. It directed him, for the key, to a caretaker on the opposite side of the Square. The woman offered to come with him; but he insisted on being alone. It was with a queer fury of the blood that he mounted the unwashed steps, and prepared to enter the deserted house.
The door, stuck to its lintel from disuse, snapped open with a dusty jar. Turning as he closed it, Geoletti saw an addressed letter lying among a litter of circulars and advertisements on the floor. He took it up, and read its superscription—M. Dalston, Esq., Eaton Square, London. Was there a possible way here to the knowledge he desired? Pondering a few moments, he suddenly woke to action, left the house, closing the door behind him, and, with the letter, found his way to the nearest post office.
“I find zis behind ze door—zere,” said he, pointing to the address on the envelope.
The clerk, who received the letter from him, glanced from it to him and back again suspiciously.