Farrell, having paid his bill, had walked out, carrying a small
handbag (or 'grip,' as the porter termed it), leaving a portmanteau
behind, with word that he would return next day and fetch it.
We were allowed to examine the portmanteau. It contained some shirts
and collars and two suits of clothes, but no clue whatever--not a
scrap of paper in any of the pockets. Foe had departed leisurably
next morning, with his slight baggage.
Our detective (to do him justice) did his best to earn his money.
He carefully traced out and documented the movements of the two
travellers from one to another of the various addresses I was able to
supply: and he handed in a report, which attested not only his
calligraphy but a high degree of professional zeal. It corresponded
with everything I knew already and decorated it with details which
could only have been accumulated by conscientious research. They
tallied with--they corroborated--they substantiated--they touched
up--the bald facts we already knew. But they did not advance us one
foot beyond the portals of the Flaxman Building Hotel, out of which
Farrell and Foe had walked, at fifteen hours' interval, and walked
straight into vacancy.
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