The door closed softly, and she was gone.
CHAPTER VIII
Dacent Smith, busy in his luxurious bachelor apartments in Jermyn Street, was going through a pile of documents, all relating directly or indirectly to the multitudinous activities of his department. He had continued his work for, perhaps, half an hour after his brief luncheon interval when the man-servant entered and announced a visitor. Dacent Smith's man-servant was discretion itself. He looked like a walking secret, and was a big, pallid man, with high cheek-bones and a grim, hard mouth. He was devoted body and soul to Dacent Smith, and no tortures ever devised could have ever wormed a word from him of his master's activities.
"Well, Grew?"
"Mr. Treves, sir."
"I'll see Mr. Treves at once."
Grew, the man-servant, departed, and a minute later John was ushered into the apartment.
Dacent Smith greeted him with brief cordiality, then indicated a chair.
"Well, Treves," he said, with a smile, "what is your news?"
"There is very little to tell you, sir, so far. The person who wrote that telegram signed 'Elaine,' is Bernard Treves's wife!"