"The man in the street knows very little of the real happenings in life," he pronounced. "The truth has a queer way sometimes of spreading itself out into the realms of fiction. Come across here with me to the hotel. I have got to move heaven and earth to find my friend."
"Do with me as you like," Mr. Simpson sighed resignedly. "In a plain political discussion, or an argument with Monsieur Douaille—well, I am ready to bear my part. But this sort of thing lifts me off my feet. I can only trot along at your heels."
They entered the Hotel de Paris. Hunterleys made a few breathless enquiries. Nothing, alas! was known of Mr. Richard Lane. He came back, frowning, to the steps of the hotel.
"If he is up playing golf at La Turbie," Hunterleys muttered, "we shall barely have time."
A reception clerk tapped him on the shoulder. He turned abruptly around.
"I have just made an enquiry of the floor waiter," the clerk announced. "He believes that Mr. Lane is still in his room."
Hunterleys thanked the man and hurried to the lift. In a few moments he was knocking at the door of Lane's rooms. His heart gave a great jump as a familiar voice bade him enter. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Richard, in light blue pyjamas, sat up in bed and looked at his visitor with a huge yawn.
"Say, old chap, are you in a hurry or anything?" he demanded.
"Do you know the time?" Hunterleys asked.
"No idea," the other replied. "The valet called me at eight. I told him I'd shoot him if he disturbed me again."