He rang a bell, and a man came, letting himself into the room with a key. He was an Italian with a peculiarly repulsive face; one of the small fry whom Poltavo had employed from time to time to do such work as was beneath his own dignity, or which promised an unnecessary measure of danger in its performance.
"Carlos," said Poltavo, speaking in Italian, "Antonio has been arrested, and has been taken to Calais by the police."
"That I know, signor," nodded the man. "He is very fortunate. I was afraid when the news came that he would be put into prison."
Poltavo smiled.
"The ways of the English police are beyond understanding," he said lightly. "Here was our Antonio, anxious and willing to kill the head of the detective department, and they release him! Is it not madness? At any rate, Antonio will not be coming back, because though they are mad, the police are not so foolish as to allow him to land again. I have telegraphed to our friend to go on to Paris and await me, and here let me say, Carlos,"—he tapped the table with the end of his penholder,—"that if you by ill-fortune should ever find yourself in the same position of our admirable and worthy Antonio, I beg that you will not send me telegrams."
"You may be assured, excellent signor," said the man with a little grin, "that I shall not send you telegrams, for I cannot write."
"A splendid deficiency," said Poltavo.
He took up a letter from the table.
"You will deliver this to a person who will meet you at the corner of Branson Square. The exact position I have already indicated to you."
The man nodded.