of tracking an habitué. This is not impossible. They question him; they ask, ‘Do you know a Mr. King?’ He replies that he knows no such person, has never seen, has never spoken with him! I assure you that official inquiries have gone thus far already, in New York, for example; but to what end? They say, ‘Where is the establishment of a Mr. King to which you have gone on such and such an occasion?’ He replies with perfect truth, ‘I do not know.’ Believe me this little device is quite in your own interest, M. Gaston.”
“But when again I feel myself compelled to resort to the solace of the pipe, how then?”
“So simple! You will step to the telephone and ask for this number: East 18642. You will then ask for Mr. King, and an appointment will be made; I will meet you as I met you this evening—and all will be well.”
M. Max began to perceive that he had to deal with a scheme even more elaborate than hitherto he had conjectured. These were very clever pople, and through the whole complicated network, as through the petal of a poppy one may trace the veins, he traced the guiding will—the power of a tortuous Eastern mind. The system was truly Chinese in its elaborate, uncanny mystifications.
In some covered place that was very dark, the car stopped, and Gianapolis, leaping out with agility, assisted M. Max to descend.
