This was not encouraging, and French went on to the next item on his program, the headquarters of the small freighter which had sailed in ballast for Casablanca. She was owned by Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal, whose office was farther down the Rue des Tanneurs, and five minutes later he had pushed open the door and was inquiring for the principal. This was a more modern establishment than that of M. Leblanc. Though small, the office ran to plate glass windows, teak furniture, polished brass fittings, and encaustic tiles, while the two typists he could envisage through the small inquiry window seemed unduly gorgeous as to raiment and pert as to demeanor. He was kept waiting for some minutes, then told that M. Merkel, the head of the business, was away, but that M. Lowenthal, the junior partner, would see him. His first glance told French that M. Lowenthal was a man to be watched. Seldom had he seen so many of the tell-tale signs of roguery concentrated in the features of one person. The junior partner had a mean, sly look, close-set, shifty eyes which would not meet French’s, and a large mouth with loose, fleshy lips. His manner was in accord with his appearance, now blustering, now almost fulsomely ingratiating. French took an instant dislike to him, and though he remained courteous as ever, he determined not to lay his cards on the table. “My name,” he began, “as you will have seen from my card, is French, and I carry out the business of a general agent in London. I am trying to obtain an interview with a friend, who has been staying here, off and on, for some time. I came on here from Brussels in the hope of seeing him, but he had just left. I was told that he had sailed with your ship, the _L’Escaut_, on Thursday afternoon, and if so I called to ask at which port I should be likely to get in touch with him. His name is Dangle.” While French spoke he watched the other narrowly, on his favorite theory that the involuntary replies to unexpected remarks—starts, changes of expression, sudden pallors—were more valuable than spoken answers. But M. Lowenthal betrayed no emotion other than a mild surprise. “That iss a very egstraordinary statement, sir,” he said in heavy guttural tones. “I do not really know who could haf given you such misleading information. Your friend’s name is quite unknown to me, and in any case we do not take passengers on our ships.” This seemed an entirely reasonable and proper reply, and yet to French’s highly developed instincts it did not ring true. However, he could do nothing more, and after a little further conversation containing not a few veiled inquiries, all of which, he noted, were skillfully parried by the other, he apologized for his mistake and withdrew.