The Yellow Crayon | Page 7

said softly, "do not care about pursuit and
inquiries. It is ridiculous to suppose that their warning is given out of
any consideration to me. Duson!"

"Yes, sir!"
"My bath. I shall rise now."
Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation
which characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the hall,
bought a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a close
observation upon every one who passed to and fro for about an hour.
Later on he ordered a carriage, and made several calls down town.
At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue
Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables. The
room was full, but Mr. Sabin's attention was directed solely to one
group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter
drinking champagne. The central person of the group was a big man,
with an unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache tinged
with grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he apparently
who was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on intimate
terms with all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his opportunity, and
then rising from his seat touched him on the shoulder.
"Mr. Skinner, I believe?" he said quietly.
The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen
offensiveness of the professional bully.
"You've hit it first time," he admitted. "Who are you, anyway?"
Mr. Sabin produced a card.
"I called this morning," he said, "upon the gentleman whose name you
will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here."
The man tore the card into small pieces.
"So long, boys," he said, addressing his late companions. "See you
to-night."
They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured Mr.

Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.
"I should be glad to speak with you," Mr. Sabin said, "in a place where
we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard."
"You come right across to my office," was the prompt reply. "I guess
we can fix it up there."
Mr. Sabin motioned to his coachman, and they crossed Broadway. His
companion led him into a tall building, talking noisily all the time
about the pals whom he had just left. An elevator transported them to
the twelfth floor in little more than as many seconds, and Mr. Skinner
ushered his visitor into a somewhat bare-looking office, smelling
strongly of stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Skinner at once lit a cigar, and
seating himself before his desk, folded his arms and leaned over
towards Mr. Sabin.
"Smoke one?" he asked, pointing to the open box.
Mr. Sabin declined.
"Get right ahead then."
"I am an Englishman," Mr. Sabin said slowly, "and consequently am
not altogether at home with your ways over here. I have always
understood, however, that if you are in need of any special information
such as we should in England apply to the police for, over here there is
a quicker and more satisfactory method of procedure."
"You've come a long way round," Mr. Skinner remarked, spitting upon
the floor, "but you're dead right."
"I am in need of some information," Mr. Sabin continued, "and
accordingly I called this morning on Mr. - "
Mr. Skinner held up his hand.
"All right," he said. "We don't mention names more than we can help.
Call him the boss."

"He assured me that the information I was in need of was easily to be
obtained, and gave me a card to you."
"Go right on," Mr. Skinner said. "What is it?"
"On Friday last," Mr. Sabin said, "at four o'clock, the Duchess of
Souspennier, whose picture I will presently show you, left the Holland
House Hotel for the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot,
presumably for her home at Lenox, to which place her baggage had
already been checked. On the way she ordered the cabman to set her
down at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, which he did at a few minutes past
four. The Duchess has not returned home or been directly heard from
since. I wish to ascertain her movements since she arrived at the
Waldorf."
"Sounds dead easy," Mr. Skinner remarked reassuringly. "Got the
picture?"
Mr. Sabin touched the spring of a small gold locket which he drew
from an inside waistcoat pocket, and disclosed a beautifully painted
miniature. Mr. Skinner's thick lips were pursed into a whistle. He was
on the point of making a remark when he chanced to glance into Mr.
Sabin's face. The remark remained unspoken.
He drew a sheet of note-paper towards him and made a few notes upon
it.
"The Duchess many friends in New York?"
"At present none. The