Antoine lifted his shoulders.
“But what could one do?” he exclaimed. “Characters, they were easy enough to write—but were they worth the paper they were written on? Indeed no!”
“Not only your waiters,” Dory continued, “but those who stay in the hotels round here have sometimes an evil name.”
Antoine shrugged his shoulders.
“For myself,” he said, “I am particular. We have but a few rooms, but we are careful to whom we let them.”
“Do you keep a visitors’ book?”
“But no, Monsieur!” Antoine protested. “For why the necessity? There are so few who come to stay for more than the night—just now scarcely any one at all.”
There entered, at that moment, a tall, thin man dressed in dark clothes, who walked with his hands in his overcoat pockets, as though it were a habit. He came straight to Dory and handed him a piece of paper.
John Dory glanced it through and rose to his feet. A gleam of satisfaction lit his eyes.
“Monsieur Antoine,” he said, “I am sorry to cause you any inconvenience, but here is my card. I am a detective officer from Scotland Yard, and I have received information which compels me with your permission, to examine at once the sleeping apartments in your hotel.”