The manager he knew well, also the head-waiter, and two or three of his subordinates. If the man he was tracking was staying there, it would be the easiest thing in the world to make a few judicious inquiries ere he again 'phoned Smeaton. The first person he met, as he stepped into the hall, was Bayfield, the portly and rubicund head-waiter himself. "Good-day, Mr Wingate. Very pleased to see you, sir. We were saying only the other day that you had quite deserted us." "Been awfully busy, Bayfield; couldn't get away. But it was such a lovely day that I made up my mind I would rush down for a breath of fresh air." "Quite right, sir," cried the cheerful Bayfield, in an approving voice. "It will do you good. All work and no play--you know the old proverb, sir--eh? You are staying the night, I hope?" Wingate hesitated. "I didn't intend to when I started from town. Anyway, I will have dinner, and make plans afterwards. Have you many people stopping here?" "Never knew the house so empty, although, of course, we don't expect to have many this time of year. A lot of people come in to the _table d'hote_, but at the moment, in the house itself, we've only an elderly couple, a few stray people, and a foreign gentleman, who has been a visitor, on and off, for the last few months." It was a fine opportunity to engage Bayfield in conversation upon the subject of the "foreign" gentleman, and pick up what he could. Bayfield was a chatty, old-fashioned creature nearly seventy, and could be trusted not to exhibit undue reticence when unfolding himself to a customer whom he had known for some years. But Wingate made up his mind not to press matters too much. He would prospect a little on his own account first, before he availed himself of the head-waiter's loquacity. A minute later he entered the smoking-room, lit another cigar, and prepared to cogitate over matters. At the moment of his entrance there was nobody else in the apartment. A few seconds later the bearded stranger came in, rang the bell, ordered something, and seated himself before a small writing-table in the corner of the room. Then he pulled from his breast pocket a bundle of papers. He read through some of them, various letters and memoranda they seemed to be, slowly and carefully, and laid them aside after perusal, making notes meanwhile. Then, almost, but not quite, at the end of the packet, came the telegram which he had received at the post-office. He placed this on the top of the little pile, and went on with what remained. It was a tantalising moment for Austin. There was the telegram within six feet of him. Wild thoughts coursed through his brain. An idea occurred to him. He stumped his cigar upon the ash-tray, till it failed to emit the feeblest glow. He had already observed that, through carelessness, nearly every match-box in the room was empty.