"Our friends tell me," Poltavo went on,--"did I tell you it was written on behalf of two men?--that they have a clue and in fact that they know Mr. Fallock's address, and they are sure he is engaged in a nefarious business, but they require confirmation of their knowledge." The man at the table was silent. His fingers drummed nervously on the blotting pad and his head was sunk forward as a man weighing a difficult problem. "All child's talk," he said roughly, "these buried treasures!--I have heard of them before. They are just two imaginative foreigners. I suppose they want you to advance their fare?" "That is exactly what they do ask," said Poltavo. The man at the desk laughed uneasily behind his veil and rose. "It's the Spanish prison trick," he said; "surely you are not deceived by that sort of stuff?" Poltavo shrugged his shoulders. "Speaking as one who has also languished in a Spanish prison," he smiled, "and who has also sent out invitations to the generous people of England to release him from his sad position--a release which could only be made by generous payments--I thoroughly understand the delicate workings of that particular fraud; but we robbers of Spain, dear colleague, do not write in our native language, we write in good, or bad, English. We write not in vilely spelt Italian because we know that the recipient of our letter will not take the trouble to get it translated. No, this is no Spanish prison trick. This is genuine." "May I see the letter?" Poltavo handed it across the table, and the man turning his back for a moment upon his assistant lifted his veil and read. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "I will think about it," he said gruffly. "Another privilege I would crave from you in addition to the purely nominal privilege of receiving more salary," said Poltavo. "What is it?" The Pole spread out his hands in a gesture of self-depreciation. "It is weak of me, I admit," he said, "but I am anxious--foolishly anxious--to return to the society of well-clothed men and pretty women. I pine for social life. It is a weakness of mine," he added apologetically. "I want to meet stockbrokers, financiers, politicians and other _chevaliers d'industrie_ on equal terms, to wear the _grande habit_, to listen to soft music, to drink good wine." "Well?" asked the other suspiciously. "What am I to do?" "Introduce me to society," said Poltavo sweetly--"most particularly do I desire to meet that merchant prince of whose operations I read in the newspapers, Mr. how-do-you-call-him?--Farrington." The veiled man sat in silence for a good minute, and then he rose, opened the cupboard and put in his hand. There was a click and the cupboard with its interior swung back, revealing another room which was in point of fact an adjoining suite of offices, also rented by Mr. Brown. He stood silently in the opening, his chin on his breast, his hands behind him, then: