137A Monument Lane was the address of the Rotunda Syndicate and, when found, proved to be a tall and narrow building squeezed between two more imposing edifices. It also proved to have no lift, and Poole had the pleasure of climbing six flights of stone stairs—only to find a locked and unresponsive door at the top. “One man show, for a monkey,” thought Poole. Nobody in the building knew anything about Mr. Lessingham, of the Rotunda Syndicate, but a clerk on the floor below had occasionally seen a stoutish middle-aged chap with a stoop mounting to, or descending from, the top floor. Once or twice, also, he had seen a girl, who looked as if she might be a typist. Poole realized that he had stupidly forgotten to ask Mr. Blagge for a description of Lessingham, but he felt pretty certain that this must be he. There remained the Hotel Antwerp; at least something could be learnt about Lessingham there, even though it was not likely to produce a meeting. On reaching Adam Street, Poole was surprised to find that the Hotel Antwerp was a small and rather shabby affair, which seemed hardly the place to provide congenial accommodation for a financier, even if he were not a particularly stable one. However, there was no accounting for taste; possibly Mr. Travers Lessingham preferred to economize on his bedroom in order to allow of expansion elsewhere. Within a few minutes Poole was closeted in the manager’s office with Mr. Blertot, himself a citizen of the no mean city from which his establishment took its name. This, the detective decided, was a case where authority, rather than tact, was required. With the more select hotels and, still more with clubs, it was inadvisable to display the mailed fist—managers and secretaries, not to mention hall-porters, in those places, were extremely jealous of the confidential status of their clients and members, and needed very gentle handling if any information was to be obtained. But a small, second-rate hotel desired above all things to be on good terms with the police; therefore Poole produced his official card and corresponding manner. “I am, as you see, a police-officer, Mr. Blertot,” he said “an Inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I require some information about one of your patrons, and I must impress upon you how serious would be your position if you withheld information or divulged the fact that you have been asked for it.” “But yes, of course, of course. Anything I can do,” the manager—and proprietor—hastened to assure him. “You have but to say how it is that I can serve you, sir. My hotel, it is absolutely respectable—absolutely. I hope, I sincerely hope, that nothing has happened that will bring discredit upon it.” Poole ignored the pious—and probably optimistic hope. “The person in question,” he continued, “is Mr. Travers Lessingham; I understand that he is a permanent, or at any rate a regular, visitor here.” Mr. Blertot looked surprised.