“Certainly.”
“Tell me, then, what is, in your opinion, the best way to find Mrs. Hillmer.”
Bruce did not expect to be thus openly challenged on the matter. It was one thing to withhold his own theories and discoveries from this representative of the majesty of the law, but quite another to refuse to help a detective with whom he was nominally working.
Besides, Mrs. Hillmer had four days’ start. It would take some time—possibly a telegram would not be sufficiently explicit—to obtain the desired assistance from the Continental police. Yes—in this instance, Mensmore must take his chances.
“If I were you,” said Bruce, slowly weighing his words, “I would inquire at the Continental booking-offices at Victoria and Charing Cross, and from the guards in charge of the morning mail trains on the 30th. In fact, it would be quite safe if you were to wire the authorities at Monte Carlo, asking if Mrs. Hillmer is not now at the Hotel du Cercle.”
The detective started as though he had been shot.
“What!” he cried, “you think she is there all the time?”
“I think she has been there since Wednesday morning.”
“That is what I mean. Why did you not tell me sooner?”
“Because you never asked me. And now, Mr. White, one word of advice. Go slow.”