At last he produced a notebook; he felt unable to cope further with the situation himself.
“Votre nom, M’sieur, s’il vous plait?”
“Undoubtedly, mon Colonel,” remarked Hugh vaguely. “Nous crashons dans—”
“Ah! Mais oui, mais oui, M’sieur.” The little man danced in his agitation. “Vous m’avez déjà dit que vous avez craché dans les rognons, mais je desiré votre nom.”
“He wants your name, old dear,” murmured Jerry weakly.
“Oh, does he?” Hugh beamed on the gendarme. “You priceless little bird! My name is Captain Hugh Drummond.”
And as he spoke, a man sitting close by, who had been an amused onlooker of the whole scene, stiffened suddenly in his chair and stared hard at Hugh. It was only for a second, and then he was once more merely the politely interested spectator. But Hugh had seen that quick look, though he gave no sign; and when at last the Frenchman departed, apparently satisfied, he leaned over and spoke to Jerry.
“See that man with the suit of reach-me-downs and the cigar,” he remarked. “He’s in this game; I’m just wondering on which side.”
He was not left long in doubt, for barely had the swing doors closed behind the gendarme, when the man in question rose and came over to him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, in a pronounced nasal twang, “but I heard you say you were Captain Hugh Drummond. I guess you’re one of the men I’ve come across the water to see. My card.”
Hugh glanced at the pasteboard languidly.
“Mr. Jerome K. Green,” he murmured. “What a jolly sort of name.”
“See here, Captain,” went on the other, suddenly displaying a badge hidden under his coat. “That’ll put you wise.”
“Far from it, Mr. Green. What’s it the prize for—throwing cards into a hat?”
The American laughed.
“I guess I’ve sort of taken to you,” he remarked. “You’re real fresh. That badge is the badge of the police force of the United States of America; and that same force is humming some at the moment.” He sat down beside Hugh, and bent forward confidentially. “There’s a prominent citizen of New York City been mislaid, Captain; and, from information we’ve got, we reckon you know quite a lot about his whereabouts.”
Hugh pulled out his cigarette-case.
“Turkish this side—Virginian that. Ah! But I see you’re smoking.” With great deliberation he selected one himself, and lit it. “You were saying, Mr. Green?”
The detective stared at him thoughtfully; at the moment he was not quite certain how to tackle this large and self-possessed young man.
“Might I ask why you’re over here?” he asked at length, deciding to feel his way.
“The air is free to everyone, Mr. Green. As long as you get your share to breathe, you can ask anything you like.”
The American laughed again.
“I guess I’ll put my cards down,” he said, with sudden decision. “What about Hiram C. Potts?”
“What, indeed?” remarked Hugh. “Sounds like a riddle, don’t it?”
“You’ve heard of him, Captain?”
“Few people have not.”
“Yes—but you’ve met him recently,” said the detective, leaning forward. “You know where he is, and”—he tapped Hugh on the knee impressively—“I want him. I want Hiram C. Potts like a man wants a drink in a dry state. I want to take him back in cottonwool to his wife and daughters. That’s why I’m over this side, Captain, just for that one purpose.”
“There seem to me to be a considerable number of people wandering around who share your opinion about Mr. Potts,” drawled Hugh. “He must be a popular sort of cove.”
“Popular ain’t the word for it, Captain,” said the other. “Have you got him now?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing waiter. “Three Martinis.”
“Where is he?” snapped the detective eagerly.
Hugh laughed.
“Being wrapped up in cottonwool by somebody else’s wife and daughters. You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one.”
The American nodded his head in approval.
“Quite right,” he remarked. “My motto—and yet I’m going to trust you. Weeks ago we heard things on the other side, through certain channels, as to a show which was on the rails over here. It was a bit vague, and there were big men in it; but at the time it was no concern of ours. You run your own worries, Captain, over this side.”
Hugh nodded.
“Go on,” he said curtly.
“Then Hiram Potts got mixed up in it; exactly how, we weren’t wise to. But it was enough to bring me over here. Two days ago I got this cable.” He produced a bundle of papers, and handed one to Drummond. “It’s in cipher, as you see; I’ve put the translation underneath.”
Hugh took the cablegram and glanced at it. It was short and to the point:
“Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is your man.”
He glanced up at the American, who drained his cocktail with the air of a man who is satisfied with life.
“Captain Hugh Drummond, of Half Moon Street, London, is my man,” he chuckled. “Well, Captain, what about it now? Will you tell me why you’ve come to Paris? I guess it’s something to do with the business I’m on.”
For a few moments Hugh did not reply, and the American seemed in no hurry for an answer. Some early arrivals for dinner sauntered through the lounge, and Drummond watched them idly as they passed. The American detective certainly seemed all right, but … Casually, his glance rested on a man sitting just opposite, reading the paper. He took in the short, dark beard—the immaculate, though slightly
