“By the way”—again came that swift baring of the teeth—“you haven't asked me yet”—he underscored the “yet” with a glance—“how I came to run away from the Enterprise without saying good-bye to anyone. Well, I'll tell you. I had just got up from my cosy armchair and made a start for bed when who should pass the window—I had opened it—but Green. Yes, Green, the man my paper had tried so hard to get in N'York and fallen flat over. He had an overcoat on his arm, and his grip in his hand, so I just whipped out of the window and followed him to a garage. Went in after him and arranged for a faster car than his little two-seater. Picked up his trail without any effort, for he had hired the machine and driver in Dover, and the man was to drive him back for the boat. I did the same. We crossed together, and I followed him here to Brussels. He doesn't know me by sight, so I laid what I thought was a first class trap for him. Everything went according to plan—except the end.” He made a grimace. “Behold me minus the crook, my diamond ring, my pocket-book and my reputation for brains, to say nothing of my night's sleep. You see, Green knew all the time who I was, and I'm bound to say he's a hustler.”
“Why do you call him Green?” asked Pointer slowly.
“Why shouldn't I? It's as much his name as any of the others he uses, I guess.”
“What others, for instance?”
“Well-l,—Shepherd, Smith, are two others.”
“What about Cox, or Carter?”
Just for a second Pointer saw a contraction of the American's pupils.
“Carter? Cox? Do you know him, too, at Scotland Yard?”
“Mr. Beale, may I ask you for the fullest possible details of the man you call Green?”
“Better search our police files. A cleverer criminal doesn't snap his fingers at our detectives.”