“I wish,” said Freyberger, speaking in excellent French, “to make some inquiries as to M. Gassard, photographer, of Boulevard St-Michel. I wish to know if he is still in business, and, if not, where he is to be found,—Freyberger, Inspector, Scotland Yard.” The answer did not come for ten minutes. Then the bell rang and the thin voice replied. “Gassard, of 110 Boulevard St-Michel, sold his business three years ago. March 10, 19—, he left Paris. We have no trace of him. He was succeeded by Madame——, a modiste.” “Luck is against us,” said Freyberger, hanging up the receiver. “Never mind, we have the name, and a name is a good deal in a case like this.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVIII FREYBERGER was up betimes next morning, and having called at the Yard and found his chief not yet arrived, and no further news concerning the Gyde case, he betook himself to Old Compton Street, Soho. In Old Compton Street you may buy a French newspaper or a German sausage. You can get anything in an Italian way, from a pound of macaroni to a knife in your back, if you know the right way to look for it. It is a street of many nations and its kerb is trodden by all sorts of celebrities, from the new tenor at the Italian opera in furs, to Enrico Malatesta in rags. A dingy looking Hebrew boy was just taking down the shutters of Antonides’ dusty-looking shop, when Freyberger arrived a few minutes after nine. The boy asked him to be seated, whilst he apprised his master of the presence of a customer. “He ain’t down yet,” said the youth. “Never comes into the shop till half after eleven. I’m lockin’ the shop door on you whilst I go up, for Mr Antonides said no one was to be left alone in the shop, unless the door was locked on them, for fear they’d be carryin’ off sumefin.” He locked the door, went upstairs and presently returned, saying that Mr Antonides would be down in a minute. Freyberger sat looking about him at the various objects of art, the cracked china, the dingy pictures, the dented armour. The old Greek did not make much money out of these things; his fortune was derived from the occasional great deal that his genius was able to bring off. The Hermes, dredged up from the sea by fishermen off Cape Matapan, and now in possession of Droch, the German manure-millionaire of Chicago, passed through the hands of Antonides and left three thousand pounds in his pocket. Half a dozen broken pieces of marble, bought from a fellow Greek for a few pounds, and restored, had resulted in an almost perfect bust of Clytie, worth—the value of the cheque it brought him is unknown. He was the prince of restorers, whether in marble or canvas. As Freyberger sat looking around him, he suddenly became aware of a new object in his purview, that was not an object of art. Through the half-opened door leading from the shop to the house, a long, lean, claw-like hand was beckoning to him.