tence in New York that evening. She was aware of statements
being made in language which rang familiarly in her ears, but they had
no more coherence in her clogged understanding than the gabble of
dementia.

Steingall was the least surprised of the five people who listened to
the clerk's words. The notion that de Courtois might be close at hand
had dawned on him already; still, he was not prepared to hear that the
man was actually a resident in the hotel.

"Has Monsieur de Courtois lived here some time?" he asked, not without
a sharp glance at Curtis to see how the suspect was taking this new
phase in his adventure.

"About a month," said the clerk.

"Has he received many visitors?"

"A few, mostly foreigners. A Mr. Hunter called here occasionally, and
they dined together last evening. I believe Mr. Hunter is connected
with the press."

The clerk wondered why he was being catechized about the Frenchman. He
had no more notion that de Courtois and Hunter were connected with the
tragedy than the man in the moon.

"Take me to Monsieur de Courtois's room," Said Steingall, after a
momentary pause.

"May I come with you?" inquired Curtis.

"Why?"

"I am deeply interested in de Courtois, and I may be able to help you
in questioning him. I speak French well."

"So do I," said Steingall. "But, come if you like."

"For the love of Heaven, don't leave me out of this, Steingall,"
pleaded Devar.

The detective was blessed with a sense of humor; he realized that the
inquiry had long since passed the bounds of official decorum, and its
irregularities had proved so illuminative that he was not anxious to
check them yet a while.

"Yes," he said, "you'll do no harm if you keep a still tongue in your
head."

"You'll come back to us, John, won't you?" broke in Mrs. Curtis,
desperately contributing the first commonplace remark that occurred to
her bemused brain.

"Yes, aunt. I'll rejoin you here. Shall I have some supper sent in
for both of you?"

"No, my boy," said Uncle Horace, who had revived under the prospect of
a long drink. "If any feasting is to be done later it is up to me to
arrange it. The night is young. I hope to have the honor of toasting
your wife before I go to bed."

Curtis smiled at that, but made no reply, the moment being inopportune
for explanations, but Devar murmured, as they crossed the lobby with
Steingall and the clerk:

"That uncle of yours is a peach, John D. He points the