that presented itself. Out of all the folk
there, waiters and customers, the idle and the busy, he quickly decided
that there was only one man who possessed particular interest for him.
That man was the big, smiling, frock-coated, sleek-haired patron or
proprietor, who strode up and down, beaming and nodding, sharp-eyed and
courteous, and whom Selwood, from a glance at the emblazoned lettering
of the bill-of-fare, took to rejoice in the name of Mr. Alessandro
Bioni. This man, if he was landlord, or manager, of the Ravenna Hotel,
was clearly the person to approach if one wanted information about the
Luigi Dimambro who had given the place as his address as recently as
November 12th.

While he ate and drank, Selwood wondered how to go about his business.
It seemed to him that the best thing to do, now that he had seen the
place and assured himself that it was a hotel evidently doing a proper
and legitimate business, was to approach its management with a plain
question--was Mr. Luigi Dimambro staying there, or was he known there?
Since Dimambro, whoever he might be, had given that as his address,
something must be known of him. And when the smiling patron presently
came round, and, seeing a new customer, asked politely if he was being
served to his satisfaction, Selwood determined to settle matters at
once.

"The proprietor, I presume?" he asked.

"Manager, sir," answered the other. "The proprietor, he is an old
gentleman--practically retired."

"Perhaps I can ask you a question," Selwood. "Have you got a Mr. Luigi
Dimambro staying at your hotel? He is, I believe"--here Selwood made a
bold shot at a possibility--"a seller of curios, or art objects. I know
he stops here sometimes."

The manager rubbed his hands together and reflected.

"One moment, sir," he said. "I get the register. The hotel guests, they
come in here for meals, but always I do not recollect their names, and
sometimes not know them. But the register----"

He sped down the room, through a side door, vanished; to return in a
moment with a book which he carried to Selwood's side.

"Dimambro?" he said. "Recently, then? We shall see."

"About the beginning or middle of November," answered Selwood.

The manager found the pages: suddenly he pointed to an entry.

"See, then!" he exclaimed dramatically. "You are right, sir. There--Luigi
Dimambro--November 11th to--yes--13th. Two days only. Then he go--leave
us, eh?"

"Oh, then, he's not here now," sa