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Updated: June 21, 2025
"Give me a towel," his visitor directed. "I do not want this upon my clothes." Selingman took a towel from the stand and threw it across the room. "You mean," he asked, dropping his voice a little, "that it is finished?" "A quarter of an hour ago," Jean Coulois answered triumphantly. "He had just come in from luncheon and was sitting at his writing-table. It was cleverly done wonderfully.
Coulois' eyes glittered. "He was an Englishman," he muttered. "Quite true," Selingman assented. "His name is Hunterleys Sir Henry Hunterleys. He lives at the Hotel de Paris. His room is number 189. He spends his time upon the Terrace, at the Café de Paris, and in the Sporting Club.
The girl had reappeared and was poising herself upon her toes. The leader of the orchestra summoned Coulois. "I must dance," he announced. "Afterwards I will return." He leapt lightly to his feet and swung into the room with extended arms. Draconmeyer looked down at his plate. "It is a risk, this, we are running," he muttered.
The canaille applaud. It is always like that. Your health, monsieur!" He drank his wine without apparent enjoyment, but he drank it like water. Selingman leaned across the table. "Coulois," he whispered, "the wolves bay loudest at night, is it not so?" The man sat quite still. If such a thing had been possible, he might have grown a shade paler. His eyes glittered.
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