“Yes, Charley; I suppose he is her husband. We can do nothing.”
“Have you any suspicion of where she is?”
“Yes, old man. In this town, and I have set a waiter to work to bring me news. They’re ten times better than detectives. But it’s very good of you, Charley, and I’m sorry I abused you so.”
“You have been abusing me, then?” said Melton with an amused look.
“Yes, for giving up so easily,” said Tom. “Oh, here’s my man. I suppose,” he added hastily, as the hotel waiter entered, “some one for me.”
“Yes, milor, the head waiter from the Vesuvio.”
“Show him in. Now, Charley, there’ll be news.”
“All right, get it then,” said Melton, and he walked to the window, while Tom turned to face a little dark Italian, with a face suggestive of his being developed from a shaven rat.
The interview was short and decisive, and accompanied by much gesticulation, terminating in a chinking of coin as the man left.
“There, old fellow,” cried Tom, excitedly, “I’ve done more than you have. I’ve run them to earth.”