“But yes, of course, of course. Anything I can do,” the manager—and proprietor—hastened to assure him. “You have but to say how it is that I can serve you, sir. My hotel, it is absolutely respectable—absolutely. I hope, I sincerely hope, that nothing has happened that will bring discredit upon it.”
Poole ignored the pious—and probably optimistic hope.
“The person in question,” he continued, “is Mr. Travers Lessingham; I understand that he is a permanent, or at any rate a regular, visitor here.”
Mr. Blertot looked surprised.
“A visitor yes, certainly; but a permanent, a regular, no, not at all.”
It was Poole’s turn to look surprised.
“But is he not staying here now?” he asked.
“Oh no, indeed no,—not for some time. I get you the Visitors’ Book; it is all in order, most regular.”
He sprang to his feet, as if eager to prove the immaculate compliance of his establishment with the laws of his adopted land; Poole waved him to his seat.
“Not necessary at the moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some more questions first. You might ring for it, though,” he added as an after-thought. “I certainly was given to understand that this was Mr. Lessingham’s permanent address; is not that the case?”