"I have information," said the visitor, "of the whereabouts of M. Arthur Benham."
Ste. Marie waved his hand.
"I feared as much," said he. "I mean to say, I hoped so. Proceed, Monsieur!"
"And learning," continued the other, "that M. Ste. Marie was conducting a search for that young gentleman, I hastened at once to place this information in his hands."
"At a price," suggested his host. "At a price, to be sure."
The man with the beard spread out his hands in a beautiful and eloquent gesture which well accompanied his Marseillais accent.
"Ah, as to that!" he protested. "My circumstances--I am poor, Monsieur. One must gain the livelihood. What would you? A trifle. The merest trifle."
"Where is Arthur Benham?" asked Ste. Marie.
"In Marseilles, Monsieur. I saw him a week ago--six days. And, so far as I could learn, he had no intention of leaving there immediately--though it is, to be sure, hot."
Ste. Marie laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, and the man with the pointed beard stared at him with some wonder. Ste. Marie rose and crossed the room to a writing-desk which stood against the opposite wall. He fumbled in a drawer of this, and returned holding in his hand a pink-and-blue note of the Banque de France. He said: