the manager, and, being Anthony Cade, with a gift for getting his own way by means of quiet determination, he obtained what he asked for.
The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him in his private office.
“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr. —er—McGrath?”
“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner served to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”
He paused.
“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager indifferently.
“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by the sound of someone moving softly about the room. I switched on the light, and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather suitcase.”
The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.
“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not informed sooner?”
“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”
“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”
“I examined the contents of my suitcase.”
“Had anything been taken?”