Dean turned on his tracks and again crossed the Place Pigalle. The lane
behind was deserted. He mounted it and searched eagerly. His search was
fruitless. Matheson was nowhere visible--nor the two _apaches_. To what
had happened in that interval of ten minutes there was no clue.
The young fellow did not dare to go back to the Grand Hotel and report
his failure. He wandered about aimlessly and miserably, until a
flaunting poster outside an all-night _cafe chantant_ caught his eye and
decided him to enter and kill time until some plan for retrieving his
failure might occur to him.
As he entered the swinging doors a cheery hand was laid on his
shoulders. "Hullo, old man! Hail and thrice hail!"
"Jimmy!" There was a note of pleasure in the young man's voice.
"The same," confirmed Jimmy Martin. He was a tubby, clean-shaven,
rosy-faced little fellow of thirty odd, with an inexhaustible fund of
good spirits. Everyone called him "Jimmy." Dean had known him as a
reporter on a London daily paper and a fellow-member of a local dramatic
society in Streatham.
"Why are you here?" asked Dean.
"Strictly on business, my gay young spark. My present owners, the
_Europe Chronicle_, bless their dear hearts, want to know if La Belle
Ariola"--he waved his hand towards a poster which showed chiefly a
toreador hat, a pair of flashing eyes, and a whirl of white
draperies--"is engaged or no to the Prince of Sardinia. I find the
maiden coy, not to say secretive----"
"I wish you could help me," interrupted Dean eagerly.
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