"I am worth a fortune to you," he said, "because I have imagination. Here, for example." He picked out a letter from a heap on the desk and opened it. The caligraphy was typically Latin and the handwriting was vile. "Here is a letter from an Italian," he said, "which to the gross mind may perhaps represent wearisome business details. To a mind of my calibre, it is clothed in rich possibilities." He leaned across the table; his eyes lighted up with enthusiasm. "There may be an enormous fortune in this," and he tapped the letter slowly. "Here is a man who desires the great English newspaper, of which he has heard (though Heaven only knows how he can have heard it), to discover the whereabouts and the identity of a certain M. Fallock."
The veiled man started.
"Fallock," he repeated.
Poltavo nodded.
"Our friend Fallock has built a house 'of great wonder,' to quote the letter of our correspondent. In this house are buried millions of lira—doesn't that fire your imagination, dear colleague?"
"Built a house, did he?" repeated the other.
"Our friends tell me," Poltavo went on,—"did I tell you it was written on behalf of two men?—that they have a clue and in fact that they know Mr. Fallock's address, and they are sure he is engaged in a nefarious business, but they require confirmation of their knowledge."
The man at the table was silent.
His fingers drummed nervously on the blotting pad and his head was sunk forward as a man weighing a difficult problem.