“Friday morning, sir, about ’alf-past nine. As soon as ’e’d finished breakfast, Mr. James calls for me and says, I shan’t want you any more, Crabtree, ’e says, and ’e gives me my money and a quid extra to remember ’im by, and as soon as I’d cleared up the breakfast things off I went.”

“Did Mr. James tell you he was going abroad?”

“Course ’e did, sir. ’E sent me round to Brook’s the travel people in Daylesford Square, to get ’is ticket for ’im.”

Mallett opened his blue eyes wide.

“Did he, indeed?” he said. “Where was the ticket for?”

“Paris, sir, First class, by the New’aven boat. And ’e told me to ask Brook’s to book ’im a room in a ’otel, too.”

“You don’t remember the name of the hotel, I suppose?”

“No, sir. It was one of these foreign names. Wait a bit, though, ’e made me write it down before I went to Brook’s. I may ’ave it on me still.”

He fumbled in his pocket, and finally pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. This he unfolded and handed to Mallett. On it in rough capitals were the words: “Hotel Du Plessis, Avenue Magenta, Paris.”

Mallett regarded it, frowning. “This is your handwriting, I suppose?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Mr. James spelt it out to me, same as you see it there. Come to think of it, I never saw ’im write anything, ’isself.”

“And when was it you went to Brook’s for the tickets?”

“That would be the Tuesday, sir, before ’e went.”

Mallett spoke into the house telephone at his elbow.

“I want an enquiry put through to Paris at once,” he said. “Ask them to be good enough to find out if anyone answering to the description of James arrived at the Hotel Du Plessis on Saturday morning.” He added the address.

“Now tell me anything you can about Mr. James,” he said to Crabtree.

What Crabtree could tell proved disappointingly little. It may best be summarized in the words of the notes which Mallett set down after the interview.

“Crabtree’s description of James,” wrote Mallett, “is vague, but agrees substantially with Harper’s. He seems to have seen remarkably little of his employer. His duties were to keep the rooms clean and to prepare breakfast, the only meal James ever had there. He wasn’t a particular man, Crabtree says, and couldn’t bear women about the house. Refused the suggestion that a charwoman should come in to clear it up. C. is an old seaman and could turn his hand to what was necessary. The usual routine was for him to arrive at seven-thirty in the morning and heat the shaving water, which he would leave outside the bedroom door. James always kept his door locked. C. has never been inside it till James was up and dressed.”