"It was devilish work he did in Sofia," he said softly. "But for him, much of this would have been unnecessary."
The dance was over. Both men joined enthusiastically in the applause. Coulois, with an insolent nod to his admirers, returned to his seat. He threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs and held out his empty glass. Though he had been dancing furiously, there was not a single bead of perspiration upon his forehead.
"You are in good condition, my friend," Selingman observed admiringly.
"I need to be for my work," Coulois replied. "Let us get to business. There is no need to mince words. What do you want with me? Who is the quarry?"
"The man who ruined your little affair at La Turbie and captured your comrade Martin," Selingman whispered. "You see, you have every provocation to start with."
Coulois' eyes glittered.
"He was an Englishman," he muttered.
"Quite true," Selingman assented. "His name is Hunterleys—Sir Henry Hunterleys. He lives at the Hotel de Paris. His room is number 189. He spends his time upon the Terrace, at the Café de Paris, and in the Sporting Club. Every morning he goes to the English Bank for his letters, deals with them in his room, calls at the post-office and takes a walk, often up into the hills."
"Come, come, this is not so bad!" Coulois exclaimed. "They laugh at us in the cafés and down in the wine shops of Monaco, those who know," he went on, frowning. "They say that the Wolves have become sheep. We shall see! It is an affair, this, worth considering. What do you pay, Monsieur le Gros, and for how long do you wish him out of the way?"
"The pay," Selingman announced, "is two hundred louis, and the man must be in hospital for at least a fortnight."