Hamel did not speak for a moment. He was looking at the few words scrawled across the pink sheet with a heavy black pencil: “Make every enquiry in your neighbourhood for an American, John P. Dunster, entrusted with message of great importance, addressed to Von Dusenberg, The Hague. Is believed to have been in railway accident near Wymondham and to have been taken from inn by young man in motor-car. Suggest that he is being improperly detained.” Hamel crumpled up the telegram and thrust it into his pocket. “By-the-by,” he asked, as they ascended the steps, “what did you say the name of this poor fellow was who is lying ill up-stairs?” Gerald hesitated for a moment. Then he answered as though a species of recklessness had seized him. “He called himself Mr. John P. Dunster.” CHAPTER XVII Mr. Fentolin, having succeeded in getting rid of his niece and his somewhat embarrassing guest for at least two hours, was seated in his study, planning out a somewhat strenuous morning, when his privacy was invaded by Doctor Sarson. “Our guest,” the latter announced, in his usual cold and measured tones, “has sent me to request that you will favour him with an interview.” Mr. Fentolin laid his pen deliberately down. “So soon,” he murmured. “Very well, Sarson, I am at his service. Say that I will come at once.” Mr. Fentolin lost no time in paying this suggested visit. Mr. John P. Dunster, shaved and clothed, was seated in an easy-chair drawn up to the window of his room, smoking what he was forced to confess was a very excellent cigar. He turned his head as the door opened, and Mr. Fentolin waved his hand pleasantly. “Really,” he declared, “this is most agreeable. I had an idea, Mr. Dunster, that I should find you a reasonable person. Men of your eminence in their profession usually are.” Mr. Dunster looked at the speaker curiously. “And what might my profession be, Mr. Fentolin?” he asked. “You seem to know a great deal about me.” “It is true,” Mr. Fentolin admitted. “I do know a great deal.” Mr. Dunster knocked the ash from his cigar. “Well,” he said, “I have been the hearer of several important communications from my side of the Atlantic to England and to the Continent, and I have always known that there was a certain amount of risk in the business. Once I had an exceedingly narrow shave,” he continued reminiscently, “but this is the first time I have ever been dead up against it, and I don’t mind confessing that you’ve fairly got me puzzled. Who the mischief are you, Mr. Fentolin, and what are you interfering about?” Mr. Fentolin smiled queerly.