reets where one
knows no numbers."

"Tell me things, you rat, if conditions permit."

"Well, I've hit on two facts of profound importance. First, Roxton
contains an artist of rare genius, and, second, it holds a cook of
admitted excellence."

"Look here----"

"I'm listening here, which is all that science can achieve at
present."

"I'm in no mood for ill timed pleasantries."

"But I'm not joking, 'pon me honor. The cook, name of Eliza, does
really exist, and is sworn to surprise even your jaded appetite. The
artist is John Trenholme. In years to come you'll boast of having met
him before he was famous."

"So you, like me, have done nothing?"

"Ah, I note the bitterness of defeat in your tone. It has warped your
judgment, too, as you will agree when a certain dinner I have arranged
for tomorrow night touches the spot."

"Can't you put matters more plainly?"

"I'm guessing and planning and contriving. Like Galileo, I am
convinced that the world moves." Then Furneaux broke into French.
"Regarding those addresses you speak of, what are they?"

Using the same language, Winter told him, substituting "the Eurasian"
and "the motorcyclist" for names, and adding that he was writing
Jacques Faure, the Paris detective, with reference to the hotel and
the label, the figures on the latter being of the long, thin, French
variety.

"Are you coming here tonight?" went on Furneaux.

"Do you want me?"

"I'm only a little chap, and I'd like to have you near when it is
dark."

Winter sighed, but it was with relief. He knew now that Furneaux had
not failed.

"Very well," he said. "I'll arrive by the next convenient train."

"The point is," continued Furneaux, who delighted in keeping his chief
on tenterhooks when some new development in the chase was imminent,
"that the position here requires handling by a man of your weight and
authority. The motor cyclist came back an hour ago, and is now walking
in the garden with the girl."

"The deuce! Why hasn't Sheldon reported?" blurted out Winter.

"Because, in all likelihood, he is watching the other girl. Isn't that
what you were doing? Isn't half the battle won when we find the
woman?"

"I haven't set eyes on _my_ woman."

"You surprise me. That kind of modest self-effacement isn't your usual
style, at all, at all, as they say in Cork."

"Probably you're right about Sheldon. He is a worker, not a talker
like some people I know," retorted Winter.

"What very dull