The newcomer nodded.
“I therefore want somebody of discretion who will deal with my foreign correspondence, make a fair copy in English and summarize the complaints which these good people make. You quite understand,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, “that mankind is not perfect, less perfect is womankind, and least perfect is that section of mankind which employs servants. They usually have stories to tell not greatly to their masters’ credit, not nice stories, you understand, my dear friend. By the way, what is your name?”
The stranger hesitated.
“Poltavo,” he said after a pause.
“Italian or Pole?” asked the other.
“Pole,” replied Poltavo readily.
“Well, as I was saying,” the editor went on, “we on this paper are very anxious to secure news of society doings. If they are printable, we print them; if they are not printable”—he paused—“we do not print them. But,” he raised a warning forefinger, “the fact that particulars of disgraceful happenings are not fit for publication must not induce you to cast such stories into the wastepaper basket. We keep a record of such matters for our own private amusement.” He said this latter airily, but Poltavo was not deceived.
Again there was a long silence whilst the man at the table ruminated.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“On the fourth floor of a small house in Bloomsbury,” replied Poltavo.
The veiled figure nodded.
“When did you come to this country?”
“Six months ago.”
“Why?”
Poltavo shrugged his shoulders.
“Why?” insisted the man at the table.
“A slight matter of disagreement between myself and the admirable chief of police of Sans Sebastian,” he said as airily as the other.
Again the figure nodded.
“If you had told me anything else, I should not have engaged you,” he said.
“Why?” asked Poltavo in surprise.
“Because you are speaking the truth,” said the other coolly. “Your matter of disagreement with the police in Sans Sebastian was over the missing of some money in the hotel where you were staying. The room happened to be next to yours and communicating, if one had the ingenuity to pick the lock of the door. Also your inability to pay the hotel bill hastened your departure.”
“What an editor!” said the other admiringly, but without showing any signs of perturbation or embarrassment.
“It is my business to know something about everybody,” said the editor. “By the way, you may call me Mr. Brown, and if at times I may seem absentminded when I am so addressed you must excuse me, because it is not my name. Yes, you are the kind of man I want.”
“It is remarkable that you should have found me,” said Poltavo. “The cutting”—he indicated the newspaper clip—“was sent to me by an unknown friend.”
“I was the unknown friend,” said “Mr. Brown”; “do you understand the position?”
Poltavo nodded.
“I understand everything,” he said, “except the last and most important of all matters; namely, the question of my salary.”
The man named a sum—a generous sum to Poltavo, and Mr. Brown, eyeing him keenly, was glad to note that his new assistant was neither surprised nor impressed.
“You will see very little of me at this office,” the editor went on. “If you work well, and I can trust you, I will double the salary I am giving you; if you fail me, you will be sorry for yourself.”
He rose.
“That finishes our interview. You will come here tomorrow morning and let yourself in. Here is the key of the door and a key to the safe in which I keep all correspondence. You will find much to incriminate society and precious little that will incriminate me. I expect you to devote the whole of your attention to this business,” he said slowly and emphatically.
“You may be sure—” began Poltavo.
“Wait, I have not finished. By devoting the whole of your attention to the business, I mean I want you to have no spare time to conduct any investigations as to my identity. By a method which I will not trouble to explain to you I am able to leave this building without any person being aware of the fact that I am the editor of this interesting publication. When you have been through your letters I want you to translate those which contain the most important particulars and forward them by a messenger who will call every evening at five o’clock. Your salary will be paid regularly, and you will not be bothered with any editorial duties. And now, if you will please go into the outer room and wait a few moments, you may return in five minutes and begin on this accumulation of correspondence.”
Poltavo, with a little bow, obeyed, and closed the door carefully behind him. He heard a click, and knew that the same electric control which had opened the outer door had now closed the inner. At the end of five minutes, as near as he could judge, he tried the door. It opened readily and he stepped into the inner office. The room was empty. There was a door leading out to the corridor, but something told the new assistant that this was not the manner of egress which his employer had adopted. He looked round carefully. There was no other door, but behind the chair where the veiled man had sat was a large cupboard. This he opened without, however, discovering any solution to the mystery of Mr. Brown’s disappearance, for the cupboard was filled with books and stationery. He then began a systematic search of the apartment. He tried all the drawers of the desk and found they were open, whereupon his interest in their contents evaporated, since he knew a gentleman of Mr. Brown’s wide experience was hardly likely to leave important particulars concerning himself in an unlocked desk. Poltavo shrugged his shoulders, deftly rolling a cigarette, which he lit, then pulling the chair up to the desk he began to attack the pile of letters which awaited his attention.
For six weeks Mr. Poltavo had worked with painstaking thoroughness in the new service. Every Friday morning
