“May be; the point is that it was drawn by Jacob on November 12th and cashed at the earliest possible hour next day,” replied the Professor. “Now, though it may have nothing to do with the case, I want to know what that cheque referred to. More than this, I have an idea. May not this man Dimambro be the man who called on Jacob Herapath at the House of Commons that night—the man whom Mountain saw, but did not recognize as one of his master’s usual friends or acquaintances? Do you see that point?”
Mr. Tertius and Selwood muttered expressions of acquiescence, but Mr. Halfpenny shook his head.
“Can’t see anything much in it,” he said. “If this foreign fellow, Dimambro, was the man who called at the House, I don’t see what that’s got to do with the murder. Jacob Herapath, of course, had business affairs with all sorts of queer people—Italians, Spaniards, Chinese—many a Tom, Dick, and Harry of ’em; he bought curios of all descriptions, and often sold them again as soon as bought.”
“Very good suggestion,” said Professor Cox-Raythwaite. “He may have bought something extremely valuable from this Dimambro that day, or that night, and—he may have had it on him when he was murdered. Clearly, we must see this Luigi Dimambro!”
“If he’s the man who called at the House, you forget that he’s been advertised for no end,” said Selwood.
“No, I don’t,” responded the Professor. “But he may be out of the country: may have come to it specially to see Jacob Herapath, and left it again. I repeat, we must see this man, if he’s to be found. We must make inquiries—cautious, guarded inquiries—at this hotel in Soho, which is probably a foreigners’ house of call, a mere restaurant. And the very person to make those inquiries,” he concluded, turning to Selwood and favouring him with a smack of the shoulder, “is—you!”
Selwood flinched, physically and mentally. He had no great love of the proposed rôle—private detective work did not appeal to him. And he suggested that Professor Cox-Raythwaite had far better apply to Scotland Yard.
“By no means,” answered the Professor calmly. “You are the man to do the work. We don’t want any police interference. This Hotel Ravenna is probably some café, restaurant, or saloon in Soho, frequented by foreigners—a place where, perhaps, a man can get a room for a night or two. You must go quietly, unobtrusively, there; if it’s a restaurant, as it’s sure to be, or at any rate, a place to which a restaurant is attached, go in and get some sort of a meal, keep your eyes open, find out the proprietor, get into talk with him, see if he knows Luigi Dimambro. All you need is tact, caution, and readiness to adapt yourself to circumstances.”
Then, when they left Mr. Halfpenny’s office he took Selwood aside and gave him certain hints and instructions, and enlarged upon the advantages of finding Dimambro if he was to be found. The Professor himself was enthusiastic about these recent developments, and he succeeded in communicating some of his enthusiasm to Selwood. After all, thought Selwood, as he went to Portman Square to tell Peggie of the afternoon’s doings, whatever he did was being done for Peggie; moreover, he was by that time certain that however mean and base Barthorpe Herapath’s conduct had been about the will, he was certainly not the murderer of his uncle. If that murderer was to be tracked—why, there was a certain zest, an appealing excitement in the tracking of him that presented a sure fascination to youthful spirits.
That evening found Selwood, quietly and unassumingly attired, examining the purlieus of Soho. It was a district of which he knew little, and for half an hour he perambulated its streets, wondering at the distinctly foreign atmosphere. And suddenly he came across the Hotel Ravenna—there it was, confronting him, at the lower end of Dean Street. He drew back and looked it well over from the opposite pavement.