Late that afternoon Monsieur Chémerault called at the bureau of the Hôtel Continental, and inquired for Madame Trethowen, saying that he had a note to deliver to her.
“Trethowen,” repeated the clerk, looking through the book before him. “Ah, yes; Number 213. Left morning with her maid.”
“Gone!”
“Yes. Madame’s husband went out about eleven, she being already out. Almost as soon as he had gone, however, madame returned, paid the bill, and left, giving me this note for her husband when he came back.”
“Perhaps it contains her address,” remarked the detective, glancing at the superscription. “I’ll see.” Opening it, he found to his dismay that it contained only a blank sheet of paper.
“Oh,” observed the detective to himself, “it seems she’s playing a deeper game than I thought.”
“Do you know whether she has left Paris?” he asked of the clerk, to whom he was known as a police agent.
“I really don’t. The maid called the cab and I did not notice the number.”
“You didn’t hear the cabman receive any orders?” The clerk shook his head.