The clerk, who was a good-looking young gentleman, with a curled moustache, eyed the speaker with somewhat supercilious curiosity. Mr. Ireland's manner was more suggestive of his importance than was his appearance. The clerk decided that he did not know him. He owned as much.
"I'm Inspector Ireland, of the Criminal Investigation Department. I hold a warrant for the arrest of Cyril Paxton. He is stopping in your hotel. I don't want to cause any more trouble than necessary--my assistants are outside--so, perhaps, you will tell me whereabouts in the house I am likely to find him."
The clerk looked the surprise which he felt.
"Mr. Paxton is out."
"Are you sure?"
"I will make inquiries if you wish it. But I know that he is out. I saw him go, and, as I have not left the office since he went, if he had returned I could not have helped seeing him."
"Has he any property here?"
"I will speak to the manager."
The clerk turned as if to suit the action to the word. Reaching through the office window, Mr. Ireland caught him by the shoulder.
"All right. You send for him. I'll speak to him instead."