“I am a friend,” he urged eagerly and ingratiatingly, “of someone who knows you, who has often had occasion to describe some of your exploits to me, and who, I have no doubt whatever, would authorize me to use his name to secure the interview I have the honour to beg of you, of your kindness, to accord.”
Short and sharp, Tom Bob stopped him in mid career.
“I have not a friend in France,” he declared.
The young man smiled, not at all disconcerted, only saying, in a very low whisper:
“Oh, yes, you have—one at any rate—Juve!”
Not a muscle of Tom Bob’s face moved; nevertheless the great American detective must have been well acquainted with the name of the king of police-officers, nor indeed could he well fail to know something of Juve’s famous doings, for he replied at once:
“Follow me, sir”—and putting an abrupt end to the dialogue, he turned his back on the young man, and marching on in front without a word of apology, started to mount the stairs.
“No. 142, here you are, sir! your luggage will be up in ten minutes, sir.”
Tom Bob and the unknown stranger who followed him had just been ushered into the room the detective had engaged several days ago by wireless from mid-Atlantic. Now, laying his hand on the waiter’s shoulder, he ordered him:
“Have my luggage here in one hour from now, and not before! I particularly wish not to be disturbed.”