"Is Mr. Gregory Vernon in?" I asked, assuming a clerical drawl.
"No, sare," replied the dark-eyed Italian. "Can I gif him any message?" he asked with a strong accent.
The reply satisfied me, for my object in going there was not to see the man whose real name was Vernon, but to get a peep at the unsuspicious headquarters of the greatest criminal in Europe.
"Ah, I—I called to ask him to be good enough to subscribe to an outing we are giving to the poor children of my parish—that of St. Anne's. We have much poverty, you know, and the poor children want a day in the country before autumn is over. Several kind friends——"
"Meester Vernon, he will not be able to make a subscription—he is away," broke in the Italian.
My quick eye had noticed that opposite me was a door of ground-glass. A shadow had flitted across that glass, for the short curtains behind it were inadvertently drawn slightly aside.
Some one was within. If it were Vernon, then he might have a secret hole for spying and would recognize me. Thereupon I instantly altered my position, turning my back towards the door, as though unconsciously.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps you could subscribe a trifle yourself, if only one shilling?" and I took out a penny account book with which I had provided myself.
"Ah, no," was his reply. "I haf none to gif," and he shook his head and held out his palms. "Meester Vernon—he reech man—me, no! Me only clerk!"