The door of the elevator shut noiselessly and it shot up to the next floor.  Julius preceded us down the thickly carpeted corridor leading the way to a large apartment, or rather a suite of rooms, as handsomely furnished as any in other hotels.  He switched on the lights and left us, with the remark, “When you want the waiter or anything, just press the button.”

In the largest of the rooms was a dining-table and several chairs of Jacobean oak.  A heavy sideboard and serving-table stood against opposite walls.  Another, smaller room was furnished very attractively as a sitting-room.  Deep, easy chairs stood in the corners and a wide, capacious davenport stretched across one wall.  In another nook was a little divan or cosy corner.

Electric bulbs burned pinkly in the chandeliers and on silver candelabra on the table, giving a half light that was very romantic and fascinating.  From a curtained window that opened upon an interior court we could catch strains from the cabaret singers below in the main dining-room.  Everything was new and bright.

Kennedy pressed the button and a waiter brought a menu, imposing in length and breath-taking in rates.

“The cost of vice seems to have gone up with the cost of living,” remarked Miss Kendall, as the waiter disappeared as silently as he had responded to the bell.  It was a phrase that stuck in my head, so apt was it in describing the anomalous state of things we found as the case unrolled.

Craig ordered, now and then consulting Clare about some detail.  The care and attention devoted to us could not have been more punctilious if it had been an elaborate dinner party.

“Well,” he remarked, as the waiter at last closed the door of the private dining-room to give the order in downstairs in the kitchen, “the Little Montmartre makes a brave showing.  I suppose it will be some time before the dinner arrives, though.  There is certainly some piquancy to this,” he added, looking about at the furnishings.

“Yes,” remarked Miss Kendall, “risque from the moment you enter the door.”

She said it with an impersonal tone as if there were complete detachment between herself as an observer and as a guest of the Montmartre.

“Miss Kendall,” asked Kennedy, “did you notice anything particularly downstairs?  I’d like to check up my own impressions by yours.”

“I noticed that Titian beauty in the hotel office as we left the reception room and entered the elevator.”

Craig smiled.

“So did I. I thought you would be both woman enough and detective enough to notice her.  Well, I suppose if a man likes that sort of girl that’s the sort of girl he likes.  That’s point number one.  But did you notice anything else—­as we came in, for instance?”

“No—­except that everything seems to be a matter of scientific management here to get the most out of the suckers.  This is no place for a piker.  It all seems to run so smoothly, too.  Still, I’m sure that our investigators might get something on the place if they kept right after it, although on the surface it doesn’t look as if any law was being openly violated here.  What do you mean?  What is your point number two?”