"Ah, letters! Has he received them?"

The attendant examined a green baize-covered board, decorated with
diamonds of tape, in which was stuck an assortment of letters, mostly
addressed to American tourists.

"They were here! They have gone! Then he has taken them!"

"Yes," cried Bruce; "but surely you know something about him?"

"Nothing. This hall is open to all the world."

"Do you tell me that any one can come here and take any letters which
may be stuck in that rack?"

"Will the gentleman be pleased to consider? Many persons give their
address here days and weeks before they come to arrive. Some persons, in
the manner of Monte Carlo, do not wish their names to be known of
everybody. We cannot distinguish. We do not allow the address of the
hotel to be used improperly, if we know it; but there are no
complaints."

The barrister did not argue the matter further. He only said: "Perhaps
you can tell me thus far, as I am very anxious to meet Mr. Corbett.
About how long is it since the last letter came for him?"

"But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-addressed from some place
in London. If possible, with the next one I will keep watch for Mr.
Corbett."

So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called Corbett was in Monte
Carlo, but had possibly disguised himself under another name. Again did
Bruce consult the hotel register, this time with the aid of the vendors'
list in the Springbok Mine, but without result.

There was nothing for it but to familiarize himself with Monte Carlo and
its _habitués_, awaiting developments in the chase of Corbett. In
January, when London alternates between fog and sleet, it is not an
intolerable thing to remain in forced idleness amid the sunshine and

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