The clerk eyed the detaining hand with an air of unconcealed disgust.
"Very good. Have the kindness to remove your hand. If you are a policeman, as you say you are, yours is not the kind of grasp which I care to have upon my shoulder."
"Hoity-toity! Don't you injure yourself, young man. All I want is to have the first talk with the manager. Are you going to send for the manager, or am I?"
"Here is the manager."
As the clerk spoke, and before he had had time to properly smooth his ruffled plumes, the dignitary in question entered the office from an inner room. John Ireland accosted him.
"Are you the manager of this hotel--name of Treadwater?"
"I am Mr. Treadwater."
Ireland explained who he was, and what he wanted. Mr. Treadwater was evidently even more surprised than the clerk had been.
"You have a warrant for the arrest of Cyril Paxton! Not our Mr. Paxton, surely?"
"I don't know about your Mr. Paxton; but it's the Mr. Paxton who's stopping here, so don't you make any mistake about it. I'm told he's out. One of my men will stay here till he returns. In the meantime I want to know if there is any property of his about the place. If there is, I want to have a look at it."