The manager smiled as he saw his two visitors exchange puzzled glances. “Needless to say, sir,” he added, “we are not self-supporting. We have very generous patrons.” “I lave heard my brother speak of this place as being quite wonderful,” Wilmore remarked, “but I had no idea that it was upon this scale.” “Is your brother a member?” the man asked. “He is. To tell you the truth, we came here to ask you a question about him.” “What is his name?” “Reginald Wilmore. He was here, I think, last Wednesday night.” While Wilmore talked, Francis watched. He was conscious of a curious change in the man's deportment at the mention of Reginald Wilmore's name. From being full of bumptious, almost condescending good-nature, his expression had changed into one of stony incivility. There was something almost sinister in the tightly-closed lips and the suspicious gleam in his eyes. “What questions did you wish to ask?” he demanded. “Mr. Reginald Wilmore has disappeared,” Francis explained simply. “He came here on leaving the office last Monday. He has not been seen or heard of since.” “Well?” the manager asked. “We came to ask whether you happen to remember his being here on that evening, and whether he gave any one here any indication of his future movements. We thought, perhaps, that the instructor who was with him might have some information.” “Not a chance,” was the uncompromising reply. “I remember Mr. Wilmore being here perfectly. He was doing double turns on the high bar. I saw more of him myself than any one. I was with him when he went down to have his swim.” “Did he seem in his usual spirits?” Wilmore ventured. “I don't notice what spirits my pupils are in,” the man answered, a little insolently. “There was nothing the matter with him so far as I know.” “He didn't say anything about going away?” “Not a word. You'll excuse me, gentlemen--” “One moment,” Francis interrupted. “We came here ourselves sooner than send a detective. Enquiries are bound to be made as to the young man's disappearance, and we have reason to know that this is the last place at which he was heard of. It is not unreasonable, therefore, is it, that we should come to you for information?” “Reasonable or unreasonable, I haven't got any,” the man declared gruffly. “If Mr. Wilmore's cleared out, he's cleared out for some reason of his own. It's not my business and I don't know anything about it.” “You understand,” Francis persisted, “that our interest in young Mr. Wilmore is entirely a friendly one?” “I don't care whether it's friendly or unfriendly. I tell you I don't know anything about him. And,” he added, pressing his thumb upon the button for the lift, “I'll wish you two gentlemen good afternoon. I've business to attend to.” Francis looked at him curiously. “Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” he asked, a little abruptly. “I can't say. My name is John Maclane.” “Heavy-weight champion about seven years ago?”