The porter, stimulated by the _douceur_ so promptly and adroitly administered, became voluble at once, thus justifying the detective’s hasty diagnosis of his temperament. “Miss Mayhew, sir, lives with her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Glenthorne, in this block, Number 18. I believe she is their niece; I have heard her call him uncle.” Grewgus turned to the disguised young man and addressed him with the utmost coolness and suavity. “Of course, we were given the wrong name. I suspected it after I searched that board.” He turned to the porter, who, by the knowing smile that showed itself upon his good-looking face, appeared to be awaiting developments of an interesting character. “Now can you tell us something about this Mr. Glenthorne? Do you know his profession, his business, his occupation?” The smile on the porter’s face deepened, as he saw Grewgus’ hand steal ostentatiously to his pocket, and withdraw another note. It had evidently dawned on his mind by now that they were detectives, and were prepared to pay liberally for information. “I could tell you about almost anybody in this block, sir, but not Mr. Glenthorne. When he is in London, he seems to go out every day, and returns at all sorts of hours, sometimes to lunch, sometimes to dinner, sometimes not till close upon midnight.” “A gentleman apparently of quite irregular habits?” interjected the detective. “Quite so, sir. Whatever his business is, it takes him away a good deal. He spends more than half the year abroad.” “And what about Miss Mayhew? Is she as erratic?” “Never stays here very long, sir. She was off to-day. From something I heard, I think she was bound for Paris.” A second note found its way into the porter’s ready palm, and Grewgus was prepared to admit that he had earned it. The two men were turning away, when the porter said in a low voice: “Here is Mr. Glenthorne, sir. Do you know him?” Grewgus motioned him to silence. A well-remembered figure entered the hall and ascended the staircase. He cast a sharp glance at the two men, but it was evident he did not penetrate Lydon’s disguise. When he was safely out of earshot, Leonard whispered to his companion: “It is the man whom I know as John Whitehouse.” They went out into the street, and then the detective spoke. “Glenthorne in Ashstead Mansions, and Whitehouse when he visits his friends at Effington. The beginning of a very pretty mystery, Mr. Lydon. Perhaps our trip to Paris will help us to solve it.” CHAPTER NINE When they had left Ashstead Mansions safely behind, the detective turned down a side street, and, leading the young man under a convenient archway, dexterously whipped off the disguising beard and moustache and put them in a small bag he had brought with him.