He led the way through a hall into a sitting-room and left me there.  The place was a perfect museum of art treasures, old Dutch and Italian masters on the walls, some splendid Florentine chests, a fine old dresser loaded with ancient pewter.  On a mantelshelf was an extraordinary collection of old keys, each with its label.  “Key of the fortress of Spandau, 1715.”  “Key of the Postern Gate of the Pasha’s Palace at Belgrade, 1810,” “House Key from Nuremberg, 1567,” were some of the descriptions I read.

Then a voice behind me said: 

“Ah! you admire my little treasures!”

Turning, I saw a short, stout man, of a marked Jewish appearance, with a bald head, a fat nose, little beady eyes and a large waist.

“Eugen Kore!” he introduced himself with a bow.

“Meyer!” I replied, in the German fashion.

“And what can we do for Herr ...  Meyer?” he asked in oily tones, pausing just long enough before he pronounced the name I gave to let me see that he believed it to be a pseudonym.

“I believe you know a friend of mine, whose address I am anxious to find,” I said.

“Ah!” sighed the little Jew, “a man of affairs like myself meets so many people that he may be pardoned....  What did you say his name was, this friend of yours?”

I thought I would try the effect of the name “Eichenholz” upon this enigmatic creature.

“Eichenholz?  Eichenholz?” Kore repeated.

“I seem to know the name ... it seems familiar ... now let me see again....  Eichenholz, Eichenholz. ...”

While he was speaking he unlocked one of the oak cabinets and a safe came to view.  Opening this, he brought out a ledger and ran his finger down the names.  Then he shut the book, replaced it, locked the safe and the cabinet, and turned to me again.

“Yes,” he said, “I know the name.”

His reticence was disconcerting.

“Can you tell me where I can find him?” I asked.

“Yes,” was the reply.

I was getting a trifle nettled.

“Well, where?” I queried.

“This is all very well, young Sir,” said the Jew.  “You come in here from nowhere, you introduce yourself as Meyer; you ask me ‘Who?’ and ‘What?’ and ’Where?’—­questions that, mark you, in my business, may have valuable answers.  We private enquiry agents must live, my dear sir, we must eat and drink like other men, and these are hard times, very hard times.  I will ask you a question if I may.  Meyer?  Who is Meyer?  Everybody in this country is called Meyer!”

I smiled at this bizarre speech.

“This Eichenholz, now,” I said, “... supposing he were my brother.”

“He might congratulate himself,” Kore said, blinking his little lizard eyes.

“And he sent me word to call and see you to find out his whereabouts.  You seem to like riddles, Herr Kore....  I will read you one!”

And I read him the message from Francis ... all but the first two lines.