"If the young lady with violets would like to resume her conversation with a certain person in Bond Street this morning, please reply in Friday's 'Telegraph.'"
"I propose," Mr. Harvey Grimm explained, "to insert this in to-morrow morning's Telegraph, to send a copy to Mr. Brinnen and await results."
"Brilliant!" the poet exclaimed. "It gives the proper flavour to the whole thing. But why not write a note and send it up by the waiter?"
Mr. Harvey Grimm smiled.
"My young friend," he said, "you are an adventurer of the bull-dog type. Let me tell you this. I happen to know it to be a fact. From the moment when Mr. Paul Brodie communicated his suspicions as to our friends, to Scotland Yard, their every movement, and without doubt their correspondence, has been closely watched. I will guarantee to you that not a letter is delivered to either Captain Leopold Brinnen, to Mr. Brinnen or to the young lady, which does not run a very considerable risk of being opened."
The poet listened with a pleased smile.
"I like the flavour of this sort of thing," he acknowledged. "Let us insert the advertisement, by all means. If the young lady suggests a meeting, I shall recommend myself as the most suitable person to keep the appointment."
*****
Soon after midday, two mornings later, Mr. Stephen Cresswell entered the smoking-room at the Milan. He was carrying a Daily Telegraph under his arm, he wore a bunch of violets in his buttonhole, and he was dressed with great care. He approached the table where Harvey Grimm and Aaron Rodd were awaiting him.
"You, too, have seen the answer to our advertisement?" he exclaimed. "Capital!"