"He was a Frenchman," he said; "Bartot was his name. He had an apoplectic stroke in the café one day last week, and since then complications set in."
I turned away with a little shiver. It was not pleasant to reflect upon—this man's death!
CHAPTER XXIX
AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW
Before I was up the next morning I was informed that Fritz was waiting outside the door of my room. I had him shown in, and he stood respectfully by my bedside.
"Sir," he said, "I have once more discovered Mr. Delora."
"Fritz," I answered, "you are a genius! Tell me where he is?"
"He is at a small private hotel in Bloomsbury," Fritz declared. "It is really a boarding-house, frequented by Australians and Colonials. The number is 17, and the street is Montague Street."