"Still no success, eh?" Selingman asked, drawing up a chair and seating himself.
"The man is secretive by nature," was the gloomy reply. "One would imagine that he knew he was being watched. Everything which he receives in the way of a written communication is at once torn up. He is the most difficult order of person to deal with—he is methodical. He has only the hotel valet to look after his things but everything is always in its place. Yesterday I went through his waste-paper basket. I took home the contents but the pieces were no larger than sixpences. I was able to put together one envelope which he received yesterday morning, which was franked 'On His Majesty's Service,' and the post-mark of which was Downing Street."
Selingman shook his head ponderously and then replied seriously:
"You must do better than that, my Sherlock Holmes—much better."
"I can't make bricks without straw," Allen retorted sullenly.
"There is always straw if one looks in the right place," Selingman insisted, puffing away at his cigar. "What we want to discover is, exactly how much does Hunterleys know of certain operations of ours which are going on here? He is on the watch—that I am sure of. There is one known agent in the place, and another suspected one, and I am pretty certain that they are both working at his instigation. What we want to get hold of is one of his letters to London."
"I have been in and out of his rooms at all hours," the other said. "I have gone into the matter thoroughly, so thoroughly that I have taken a situation with a firm of English tailors here, and I am supposed to go out and tout for orders. That gives me a free entrée to the hotel. I have even had a commission from Sir Henry himself. He gave me a coat to get some buttons sewn on. I am practically free of his room but what's the good? He doesn't even lead the Monte Carlo life. He doesn't give one a chance of getting at him through a third person. No notes from ladies, no flower or jewelry bills, not the shadow of an assignation. The only photograph upon his table is a photograph of Lady Hunterleys."
"Better not tell our friend Draconmeyer that," Selingman observed, smiling to himself. "Well, well, you can do nothing but persevere, Allen. We are not niggardly masters. If a man fails through no fault of his own, well, we don't throw him into the street. Nothing parsimonious about us. No need for you to sit about with a face as long as a fiddle because you can't succeed all at once. We are the people to kick at it, not you. Drink a little more wine, my friend. Give yourself a liqueur after luncheon. Stick a cigar in your mouth and go and sit in the sunshine. Make friends with some of the ladies. Remember, the sun will still shine and the music play in fifty years' time, but not for you. Come and see me when you want some more money."
"You are very kind, sir," the man replied. "I am going across to the hotel now. Sir Henry has been about there most of the morning but he has just gone in to Ciro's to lunch, so I shall have at least half-an-hour."
"Good luck to you!" Selingman exclaimed heartily. "Who knows but that the big things may come, even this afternoon? Cheer up, and try and make yourself believe that a letter may be lying on the table, a letter he forgot to post, or one sent round from the bank since he left. I am hopeful for you this afternoon, Allen. I believe you are going to do well. Come up and see me afterwards, if you will. I am going to my hotel to lie down for half-an-hour. I am not really tired but I have no friend here to talk with or anything to do, and it is a wise economy of the human frame. To-night, mademoiselle will have returned. Just now every one has deserted me. I will rest until six o'clock. Au revoir, friend Allen! Au revoir!"