“You haven't,” he suggested, “notes of what has actually passed between Wilbraham and Kratzky on the subject?”
“I regret that I have not. I could never get near enough.... But I have evidence of continual meetings, continual lunches and conferences. This I have obtained from Wilbraham's secretary. She has to keep his engagements for him. I have obtained possession of the little pocket-book in which she notes them. I have it here. See: ‘Saturday, Lunch, Café du Nord, Kratzky and Sir John. Sunday, Up Salève, with Kratzky. Monday, 8 a.m., Bathe, [Kra——’ No,] that can't be Kratzky; he wouldn't bathe; that must be some one else. And so on, and so on. Now, I ask you, what would one talk about to Kratzky all that time except some iniquitous intrigue? It's all Kratzky knows about. So, you see, when I began to suspect all this, I took to tracking Wilbraham, following him about. It's been, I can tell you, a most tiring job. Wilbraham is such a very tedious man. A most frightful bore. His very voice makes me sick.... But I followed him. I tracked him. All over the shop I tracked him. And last night he trapesed round the town with Levis and Kratzky and a horrid little Calvinist clergyman who must be in it too. I hate Calvinists, don't you?”
“Intolerable persons,” agreed the delegate from Paraguay.
“Well, at last they hared down a trap-door in an archway into the bowels of the earth. I saw them into it. After some time I went down too. I couldn't find them, but I found an extraordinary system of tunnelling—a regular catacomb. You get in and out of it all over the town, through trappons, mostly in old houses, I think. I didn't discover where half the tunnels ended. But obviously Wilbraham and his friends know all about it. And that's what they've done with the delegates. Either hidden them somewhere alive down there, or killed them. When Kratzky's in an affair, the people up against him don't, as a rule, come out alive.... I don't know how much the police know about this tunnel business, but they must make a complete investigation, of course.”
“Obviously, without delay.... A singular story, Mr. Beechtree; very singular.”
“Life is singular,” said Henry.
“There you are very right.” ... But M. Croza, used to the political life of South American republics, found no stories of plots and intrigues really singular. “You have reason,” he added, “to think badly of Mr. Wilbraham, I infer?”
“Grave reasons. I know him for a very ugly character. It is high time he was exposed.”