“Very good, sir.”      

       “From your manners and speech,” Mr. Sabin said, raising his head, “I should take you to be an Englishman.”      

       “Quite correct, sir,” the man answered. “I drove a hansom in London for eight years.”      

       “You will understand me then,” Mr. Sabin continued, “when I say that I have no great confidence in the police of this country. I do not wish to be blackmailed or bullied. I would ask you, therefore, to make your inquiries with discretion.”      

       “I’ll be careful, sir,” the man answered.     

       Mr. Sabin handed to each of them a roll of notes. The cabdriver lingered upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin looked up.     

       “Well?”      

       “Could I speak a word to you—in private, sir?”      

       Mr. Sabin motioned Duson to leave the room. The baggage porter had already departed.     

       “When I cleaned out my cab at night, sir, I found this. I didn’t reckon it was of any consequence at first, but from the questions you have been asking it may be useful to you.”      

       Mr. Sabin took the half-sheet of note-paper in silence. It was the ordinary stationery of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and the following words were written upon it in a faint delicate handwriting, but in yellow pencil:—     

                                                   “Sept. 10th.   “To LUCILLE, Duchesse de SOUSPENNIER.—   “You will be at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the main corridor at four o’clock this afternoon.”  

       The thin paper shook in Mr. Sabin’s fingers. There was no signature, but he fancied that the handwriting was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He looked slowly up towards the cabman.     

       “I am much obliged to you,” he said. “This is of interest to me.”      

       He stretched out his hand to the little wad of notes which Duson had left upon the table, but the cabdriver backed away.     

       “Beg pardon, sir,” he 

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