papers, and so on. But—she's disappeared. I don't know where she is. And that's all I can tell you."
Presently he conducted husband and wife to the outer door. From its steps he looked across the street and saw his fellow-detective in company with Marco. They were smoking cigarettes as they lounged about; there was nothing in their appearance to excite suspicion. But Wedgwood saw the waiter look over Mrs. Patello with a keen, searching glance, and when she and Mr. Patello had gone round the next corner he beckoned him to come across.
"Is that the lady you saw at Cipriani's Restaurant?" he asked sharply. "Be sure, now!"
Marco shrugged his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
"No!" he answered. "At first I think, yes—then I make sure, no! What you call—eh—similar in figure, fur coat, so on. But not the same face—oh, no! Not the same woman at all—no—no!"
Wedgwood went back into the police-station and fell to discussing matters with the inspector to whom he had retailed all his previous news. They talked things over until their heads began to ache: finally, the inspector delivered himself of an opinion. Wedgwood, he said, must some-
