“A visitor yes, certainly; but a permanent, a regular, no, not at all.” It was Poole’s turn to look surprised. “But is he not staying here now?” he asked. “Oh no, indeed no,—not for some time. I get you the Visitors’ Book; it is all in order, most regular.” He sprang to his feet, as if eager to prove the immaculate compliance of his establishment with the laws of his adopted land; Poole waved him to his seat. “Not necessary at the moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some more questions first. You might ring for it, though,” he added as an after-thought. “I certainly was given to understand that this was Mr. Lessingham’s permanent address; is not that the case?” “In a sense, yes, perhaps it is. Letters for him come here often; we send them on to him. He has an arrangement with us to do so—for a small consideration. He lives mostly, Mr. Lessingham, in Brussels, I understand, but comes over sometimes for business in London. Then he comes here, to the Hotel Antwerp; we make him so comfortable, he says. Sometimes he comes, but not to stay—to fetch any letters, perhaps to lunch or dine—our _cuisine_ is first-rate. Ah, here is the book!” A waiter, who had previously answered the bell, laid a large and rather soiled black volume upon the table before his employer. From the book’s appearance Poole judged that the flow of visitors was not sufficiently rapid to necessitate its frequent renewal. The manager ran his finger quickly up and down the names—scrawling, ill-written signatures for the most part—written carelessly or in a hurry with the indifferent pen and worse ink provided by the management. “Ah, see, here he is!” exclaimed M. Blertot. “October 11th, almost a month ago. As I say, he is not regular, not at all. I look back.” An exhaustive search through the book revealed the fact that for the last two years Mr. Lessingham had visited the hotel at fairly regular intervals of about three weeks, sometimes more frequently, sometimes less, but averaging out at three weeks. Sometimes he stayed for a night only, sometimes two, three, or even four; there again, the average was something between two and three. The letters, mostly in typewritten envelopes, came—also on the average—about twice a week and were at once forwarded, with the extra stamp, to Mr. Lessingham’s Brussels address, unless he had notified the management that he was on the point of visiting the hotel. “And the address?” asked Poole. “175 Rue des Canetons, Brussels, IV.” “And you know of no other address of his in London?” “No, absolutely.”