"That was only issued a few hours ago," the manager said.
"And I thought," Duncombe said bitterly, "that the French police were the best in the world!"
The manager said nothing. Duncombe rose from his chair.
"I shall go myself to the Café Montmartre," he said. The manager bowed.
"I shall be glad," he said, "to divest myself of any further responsibility in this matter. It has been a source of much anxiety to the directors as well as myself."
Duncombe walked out of the room, and putting on his coat again called for a petite voiture. He gave the man the address in the Rue St. Honoré and was driven to a block of flats there over some shops.
"Is Monsieur Spencer in?" he asked the concierge. He was directed to the first floor. An English man-servant admitted him, and a few moments later he was shaking hands with a man who was seated before a table covered with loose sheets of paper.
"Duncombe, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand. "Why, I thought that you had shaken the dust of the city from your feet forever, and turned country squire. Sit down! What will you have?"
"First of all, am I disturbing you?"
Spencer shook his head.