He determined finally to take the chance, claim to be L 22, and if Melis had seen the advertisement and replied, get the letter. It would be easy to square it with the valet, by saying that he had recognized him in the theater and that Miss Carlysle wished to send him a box.
He had small hope of a letter at his first call, unless the Frenchman had himself seen the notice, but his anxiety drove him early to the office. There was nothing there, but he learned one thing. He had to go through with no formalities. The clerk merely looked in a box, said “Nothing here,” and went on about his business. At eleven o'clock he went back again, and after a careful scrutiny of the crowd presented himself once more.
“L 22? Here you are.”
He had the letter in his hand. He had glanced at it and had thrust it deep in his pocket, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He wheeled and faced Bassett.
“I thought I recognized that back,” said the reporter, cheerfully. “Come over here, old man. I want to talk to you.”
But he held to Gregory's shoulder. In a corner Bassett dropped the friendliness he had assumed for the clerk's benefit, and faced him with cold anger.
“I'll have that letter now, Gregory,” he said. “And I've got a damned good notion to lodge an information against you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Forget it. I was behind you when you asked for that letter. Give it here. I want to show you something.”
Suddenly, with the letter in his hand, Bassett laughed and then tore it open. There was only a sheet of blank paper inside.