“Sir,” he said, “I have once more discovered Mr. Delora.”

“Fritz,” I answered, “you are a genius!  Tell me where he is?”

“He is at a small private hotel in Bloomsbury,” Fritz declared.  “It is really a boarding-house, frequented by Australians and Colonials.  The number is 17, and the street is Montague Street.”

I sat up in bed.

“This is very interesting,” I said.

Fritz coughed.

“I trusted that you would find it so, sir,” he admitted.

I thought for several moments.  Then I sprang out of bed.

“Fritz,” I said, “our engagement comes to an end this morning.  I am going to pay you for two months’ service.”

I went to my drawer and counted out some notes, which Fritz pocketed with a smile of contentment.

“I am obliged to give up my interest in this affair,” I said, “so I cannot find any more work for you.  But that money will enable you to take a little holiday, and I have no doubt that you will soon succeed in obtaining another situation.”

Fritz made me a magnificent bow.

“I am greatly obliged to you, sir,” he announced.  “I shall take another situation at once.  Holidays—­they will come later in life.  At my age, and with a family, one must work.  But your generosity, sir,” he wound up, with another bow, “I shall never forget.”

I dressed, and walked to the address which Fritz had given me.  As I stood on the doorstep, with the bell handle still in my hand, the door was suddenly opened.  It was Delora himself who appeared!  He shrank away from me as though I were something poisonous.  I laid my hand on his shoulder, firmly determined that this time there should be no escape.

“Mr. Delora,” I said, “I want a few words with you.  Can I have them now?”

“I am busy!” he answered.  “At any other time!”

“No other time will do,” I answered.  “It is only a few words I need say, but those few words must be spoken.”

He led the way reluctantly into a sitting-room.  There were red plush chairs set at regular intervals against the wall, and a table in the middle covered by papers—­mostly out of date.  Delora closed the door and turned toward me sternly.

“Captain Rotherby,” he said, “I am quite aware that there are certain people in London who are very much interested in me and my doings.  Their interests and mine clash, and it is only natural that they should plot against me.  But where the devil you come in I cannot tell!  Tell me what you mean by playing the spy upon me?  What business is it of yours?”

“You misunderstand the situation, sir,” I answered.  “More than ten days ago you left me in charge of your niece at Charing Cross, while you drove on, according to your own statement, to the Milan Hotel.  You never went to that hotel.  You never, apparently, meant to.  You have never been near it since.  You have left your niece in the centre of what seems to be a very nest of intrigue.  I have the right to ask you for an explanation of these things.  This morning I have a special right, because to-day I have promised to go away into the country, and to take no further interest in your doings.”