"Port——."
"Yes, yes, I know; I mean their London address, where they're staying."
The dealer thought a moment, while Yorke looked at him as if he could tear the answer from him.
"I—well, the fact is, I don't know it. I did not think to ask it!" said Arnheim.
Yorke flushed a dark red.
"Oh, nonsense! They must have given you their address, some place to write to!"
"You'd naturally think so, but as it happens they didn't!" said Arnheim. "I admit I ought to have asked Mr. Lisle, but—well, I didn't! I suppose I expected him to call again. And," with a faint smile, "of course he will do so, the man is an enthusiast——."
"I know all about him, thanks," said Yorke sternly. "What I want is Lisle's address." He thought a moment, then said slowly and impressively—"When he calls next—he may do so to-day, any hour—be sure and get the address. Wire it to me at the Dorchester, and at once."
"Certainly, my lord," said Arnheim; "and about the pictures?"
"Buy two or three, give him his own price for them. But, mind, keep my name out of the business!" and he ran down the stairs and jumped into the cab again, telling the man to drive back to the club.