“What must I do?” she asked dismally.
Everything was so beautifully new; she was sure she would drop one of those lovely jars … all the science of the school laboratory had suddenly drained out of her mind, leaving it a blank.
“You will do.” Remarkably enough, the doctor for the moment seemed as much at a loss as the girl. “First—quantities. In every jar or bottle there is a quantity. How much? Who knows? The last secretary was careless, stupid. She kept no book. Sometimes I go for something—it is not there! All gone. That is very regrettable.”
“You wish me to take stock?” she asked, her hopes reviving at the simplicity of her task.
There were measures and scales enough. The latter stood in a line like a platoon of soldiers ranged according to their size. Everything was very new, very neat. There was a smell of drying enamel in the room as though the place had been newly painted.
“That is all,” said the long-faced man. He put his hand in the pocket of his frock-coat and took out a large wallet. From this he withdrew two crisp notes.
“Ten pounds,” he said briefly. “We pay already in advance. There is one more thing I desire to know,” he said. “It is of the aunt. She is in London?”
Mirabelle shook her head.
“No, she is in the country. I expected to go back this afternoon, and if I was—successful, we were coming to town tomorrow.”
He pursed his thickish lips; she gazed fascinated at his long forehead rippled in thought.
“It will be a nervous matter for her if you stay in London tonight—no?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“No. I will stay at the flat; I have often stayed there alone, but even that will not be necessary. I will wire asking her to come up by the first train.”
“Wait.” He raised a pompous hand and darted back to his room. He returned with a packet of telegraph forms. “Write your telegram,” he commanded. “A clerk shall dispatch it at once.”
Gratefully she took the blanks and wrote her news and request.
“Thank you,” she said.
Mr. Oberzohn bowed, went to the door, bowed again, and the door closed behind him.
Fortunately for her peace of mind, Mirabelle Leicester had no occasion to consult her employer or attempt to open the door. Had she done so, she would have discovered that it was locked. As for the telegram she had written, that was a curl of black ash in his fire.
II
The Three Men of Curzon Street
No. 233, Curzon Street, was a small house. Even the most enthusiastic of agents would not, if he had any regard to his soul’s salvation, describe its dimensions with any enthusiasm. He might enlarge upon its bijou beauties, refer reverently to its historical association, speak truthfully of its central heating and electric installation, but he would, being an honest man, convey the impression that No. 233 was on the small side.
The house was flanked by two modern mansions, stone-fronted, with metal and glass doors that gave out a blur of light by night. Both overtopped the modest roof of their neighbour by many stories—No. 233 had the appearance of a little man crushed in a crowd and unable to escape, and there was in its mild frontage the illusion of patient resignation and humility.
To that section of Curzon Street wherein it had its place, the house was an offence and was, in every but a legal sense, a nuisance. A learned Chancery judge to whom application had been made on behalf of neighbouring property owners, ground landlords and the like, had refused to grant the injunction for which they had pleaded, “prohibiting the said George Manfred from carrying on a business, to wit the Triangle Detective Agency, situate at the aforesaid number two hundred and thirty-three Curzon Street in the City of Westminster in the County of Middlesex.”
In a judgment which occupied a third of a column of The Times he laid down the dictum that a private detective might be a professional rather than a business man—a dictum which has been, and will be, disputed to the end of time.
So the little silver triangle remained fixed to the door, and he continued to interview his clients—few in number, for he was most careful to accept only those who offered scope for his genius.
A tall, strikingly handsome man, with the face of a patrician and the shoulders of an athlete, Curzon Street—or such of the street as took the slightest notice of anything—observed him to be extremely well dressed on all occasions. He was a walking advertisement for a Hanover Street tailor who was so fashionable that he would have died with horror at the very thought of advertising at all. Car folk held up at busy crossings glanced into his limousine, saw the clean-cut profile and the tanned, virile face, and guessed him for a Harley Street specialist. Very few people knew him socially. Dr. Elver, the Scotland Yard surgeon, used to come up to Curzon Street at times and give his fantastic views on the snake and its appearances, George Manfred and his friends listening in silence and offering no help. But apart from Elver and an Assistant Commissioner of Police, a secretive man, who dropped in at odd moments to smoke a pipe and talk of old times, the social callers were few and far between.
His chauffeur-footman was really better known than he. At the mews where he garaged his car, they called him
