Tom Bob and the unknown stranger who followed him had just been ushered into the room the detective had engaged several days ago by wireless from mid-Atlantic. Now, laying his hand on the waiter’s shoulder, he ordered him: “Have my luggage here in one hour from now, and not before! I particularly wish not to be disturbed.” The man looked at him in astonishment; this traveller had tastes exactly the opposite of those of the ordinary run of customers. However, the well-trained servant, without a word indicating his surprise, went on: “Here is the bell, sir—one ring for the waiter who attends to your room, two for the chambermaid; this is the cold water tap and there’s the hot; the electric switch is by the head of the bed.” Tom Bob was standing in the middle of the room and gazing steadfastly at the ceiling while the man was speaking. Then he put an odd question: “How long ago was it the gentleman who has the bedroom immediately over mine first came to the hotel?” The waiter stared, more surprised than ever. “I haven’t an idea, sir,” he admitted; “but why?” Tom Bob took the man by the shoulders and pushed him gently out of the room: “It interests me enormously. It is now twenty past seven, you will find means to give me this information at twenty past eight, in sixty minutes, when they bring up my luggage. Now go!” And now, when the servant was gone and the door shut behind him, Tom Bob at last turned to the stranger, who was, no less than the other, staring at him, bewildered by his queer behaviour. “You will excuse me, won’t you,” he asked, “but before I give you my attention, I have a little piece of work to do.” The other bowed, saying only by way of remonstrance: “I must mention again, Mr. Bob, that what I have to say is pretty urgent ...” But the detective only smiled and cutting short his protest: “There’s something else,” he declared, “that’s very much more urgent, Monsieur Jérôme Fandor.” Then as the journalist gave a start of amazement at hearing his name spoken—it was as a matter of fact Jérôme Fandor who had just now accosted the detective in the entrance-hall and asked leave to speak with him—Tom Bob, calm as ever, signified with an imperative gesture that he was not to interrupt: “Something very much more urgent, I repeat. Will you be so kind as to help me in my little piece of work?” More and more surprised, but confounded by his host’s phlegm, Fandor nodded “yes,” without so much as opening his lips. “Then,” Tom Bob went on, “here’s how I start the job. Look! I take off my hat ... so; then I plant my chair against the wall ... so; I take my seat on the chair ... Have you a pencil on you, Monsieur Fandor?” “I have, sir.” “Very good! Will you be so very obliging as to take it and draw a line on—on the door; see here, exactly on a level with the top of my head.” Fandor carried out the order, lost in astonishment. “He’s mad,” he thought to himself; “the good man’s as mad as a hatter! What does it all mean?”