He wondered, grimly, what the public and the Sunday newspapers
would say if they were aware of all the other phenomena, not yet
common property: of Miss Spencer's disappearance, of Jules'
strange visits, and of the non-arrival of Prince Eugen of Posen.
Theodore Racksole had worried his brain without result. He had
conducted an elaborate private investigation without result, and he
had spent a certain amount of money without result. The police
said that they had a clue; but Racksole remarked that it was always
the business of the police to have a clue, that they seldom had
more than a clue, and that a clue without some sequel to it was a
pretty stupid business. The only sure thing in the whole affair was
that a cloud rested over his hotel, his beautiful new toy, the finest
of its kind. The cloud was not interfering with business, but,
nevertheless, it was a cloud, and he fiercely resented its presence;
perhaps it would be more correct to say that he fiercely resented
his inability to dissipate it.
'Mr Sampson Levi wishes to see you, sir,' the servant repeated,
having received no sign that his master had heard him.
'So I hear,' said Racksole. 'Does he want to see me, personally?'
'He asked for you, sir.'
'Perhaps it is Rocco he wants to see, about a menu or something of
that kind?'
'I will inquire, sir,' and the servant made a move to withdraw.
'Stop,' Racksole commanded suddenly.
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