"Then show them both up," answered Ulrica. "Be sharp, please, as we are in a hurry."
"Yes, madame," responded the waiter, a young Swiss, and went below.
"I suppose they are the pair I saw last night," I said. "The police on the Continent seem always to hunt in couples. One never sees a single gendarme, either in France or in Italy."
"One goes to keep the other cheerful, I believe," Ulrica remarked.
A few moments later the two callers were shown in.
They were not the same as I had seen in the Director's room at the Casino.
"I regret this intrusion," said the elder, a dark-bearded, rather unwholesome-looking individual with lank black hair. "I have, I believe, the honour of addressing Mademoiselle Rosselli."
"That is my name," I responded briefly, for I did not intend them to cause me to lose a most enjoyable trip in that most chic of latter-day conveyances, an automobile.
"We are police agents, as you have possibly seen from my card, and have called merely to ask whether you can identify either of these photographs." And he took two cabinet pictures from his pocket and handed them to me.
One was a prison photograph of an elderly, sad-eyed convict, with a rather bald head and a scraggy beard, while the other was a well-taken likeness of a foppishly-dressed young man of about twenty-eight, the upward trend of his moustache denoting him to be a foreigner.