Mr. James B. Coulson settled down to live what was, to all appearance, a very inoffensive and ordinary life. He rose a little earlier than was customary for an Englishman of business of his own standing, but he made up for this by a somewhat prolonged visit to the barber, a breakfast which bespoke an unimpaired digestion, and a cigar of more than ordinary length over his newspaper. At about eleven o’clock he went down to the city, and returned sometimes to luncheon, sometimes at varying hours, never later, however, than four or five o’clock. From that time until seven, he was generally to be found in the American bar, meeting old friends or making new ones.
On the sixth day of his stay at the Savoy Hotel the waiter who looked after the bar smoking room accosted him as he entered at his usual time, a little after half past four.
“There’s a gentleman here, Mr. Coulson, been asking after you,” he announced. “I told him that you generally came in about this time. You’ll find him sitting over there.”
Mr. Coulson glanced in the direction indicated. It was Mr. Jacks who awaited him in the cushioned easy chair. For a single moment, perhaps, his lips tightened and the light of battle flashed in his face. Then he crossed the room apparently himself again,—an undistinguished, perfectly natural figure.
“It’s Mr. Jacks, isn’t it?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I thought I recognized you.”
The Inspector rose to his feet.
“I am sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “but if you could spare me just a minute or two, I should be very much obliged.”
Mr. Coulson laughed pleasantly.
“You can have all you want of me from now till midnight,” he declared. “My business doesn’t take very long, and I can only see the people I want to see in the middle of the day. After that, I don’t mind telling you that I find time hangs a bit on my hands. Try one of these,” he added, producing a cigar case.
The Inspector thanked him and helped himself. Mr. Coulson summoned the waiter.