“He’s going, and he hasn’t paid his bill,” whispered Elk.
In spite of his remissness, the aged millionaire was escorted to the door by the three chief waiters, his top-coat, silk hat and walking-stick were brought to him, and he was out of Dick Gordon’s sight before the bowing servants had straightened themselves.
Elk looked at his watch: it wanted five minutes of one. Hagn had not returned—a circumstance which irritated the detective and was a source of uneasiness to Dick Gordon. The merriment again worked up to its highest point, when the two men rose from the table and strolled toward the door. A waiter came after them hurriedly.
“Monsieur has not paid his bill.”
“We will pay that later,” said Dick, and at that moment the hands of the clock pointed to the hour.
Precisely five minutes later the club was in the hands of the police. By 1.15 it was empty, save for the thirty raiding detectives and the staff.
“Where is Hagn?” Dick asked the chief waiter.
“He has gone home, monsieur,” said the man sullenly. “He always goes home early.”
“That’s a lie,” said Elk. “Show me to his room.”
Hagn’s office was in the basement, a part of the old mission hall that had remained untouched. They were shown to a large, windowless cubicle, comfortably furnished, which was Hagn’s private bureau, but the man had disappeared. Whilst his subordinates were searching for the books and examining, sheet by sheet, the documents in the clerk’s office, Elk made an examination of the room. In one corner was a small safe, upon which he put the police seal; and lying on a sofa in some disorder was a suit of clothes, evidently discarded in a hurry. Elk looked at them, carried them under the ceiling light, and examined them. It was the suit Hagn had been wearing when he had shown them to their seats.