"But he must, I think, have received two telegrams." "I remember one telegram, but I do not recollect the other. We have so many wires here in the course of the day, you know," the girl replied. "But what I do recollect is being rung up on the telephone from London on the following day, with an inquiry whether the gentleman was staying here." "You don't know who rang you up?" I asked. "I haven't any idea!" she laughed. "It may have been the police. They've done so before now." "Of course he might have stayed here in another name and taken telegrams addressed to him as Greer," I suggested. "I scarcely think so," replied the elder of the pair, a tall, smart, business-like woman. "If he had, one of us would, no doubt, have remembered him. I'd have a chat to the hall-porter at the station-entrance if I were you," she added. I therefore sought out the tall, liveried man she had indicated, and again to him exhibited the portrait. He remembered the Professor quite distinctly, he told me. The visitor deposited in his charge a kit-bag and suit-case, remarking that he was not quite certain if he would remain the night, and passed on into the hotel. "That was about 7:35 in the morning." "When did you see him again?" "About noon, when he passed through to the lift, and descended into the station. I noticed that he was then wearing a different hat from the one he had on when he arrived from London," the hall-porter replied. "When did he take his luggage?" "About half-past three. A porter took it below, and it was placed in the cloak-room." "You didn't see him again?" "No, sir. He probably left by a later train that day." That was all the information I could gather in that quarter. The remainder of the morning I spent idling about Princes Street, that splendid thoroughfare which has few equals in the world, trying to decide upon my next course of action. I had exhausted Edinburgh, it seemed, and clearly my way lay south again. Suddenly, on re-entering the hotel to get lunch, a thought occurred to me, and I sought out the hair-dressing department, making inquiry of the man in charge, a fair-haired, well-spoken German. As soon as I showed him the portrait, he exclaimed: "Ja! I recollect him--quite well." "Tell me what you know of his movements," I urged. I saw that the man regarded me with considerable suspicion. "I presume, sir," he said, "that you are an agent of police?" "No, I'm not," I assured him, rather surprised at his remark. "I'm simply making inquiry because--well, because my friend is now missing." "Then I'll tell you what occurred, sir," answered the German, with a slight accent. "The gentleman came in about four o'clock and asked me to shave him. When I began to put on the soap I realised, however, that he had himself been cutting off his beard closely. But I shaved him, and made no comment. We hairdressers are used to such things, yet they sometimes cause us a little wonder."