"Duncombe, by all that's wonderful!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"Why, I thought that you had shaken the dust of the city from your feet
forever, and turned country squire. Sit down! What will you have?"
"First of all, am I disturbing you?"
Spencer shook his head.
"I've no Press work to-night," he answered. "I've a clear hour to give
you at any rate. When did you come?"
"Two-twenty from Charing Cross," Duncombe answered. "I can't tell you
how thankful I am to find you in, Spencer. I'm over on a very serious
matter, and I want your advice."
Spencer touched the bell. Cigars and cigarettes, whisky and soda,
appeared as though by magic.
"Now help yourself and go ahead, old chap," his host declared. "I'm a
good listener."
He proved himself so, sitting with half-closed eyes and an air of close
attention until he had heard the whole story. He did not once interrupt,
but when Duncombe had finished he asked a question.
"What did you say was the name of this cafe where the boy had
disappeared?"
"Cafe Montmartre."
Spencer sat up in his chair. His expression had changed.
"The devil!" he murmured softly.
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