"That would be right, then," agreed Nikka. "Did he call this carrion anything?"
He touched the dead man with his foot.
"He called 'Vlada!' at the same time."
"That sounds reasonable, too," said Nikka, deep in thought.
"Why?"
"The man is a—what you would call a countryman of mine. He is a Gypsy. I tell you, my friends—"
He broke off, and stared down at the body on the floor.
"What?" asked Hugh.
"Why, this. Our task grows as we draw nearer to it. I have said before that we face a gang of international thieves. But see how their importance swells. Hugh, this man Hilyer—when all is said and done, an English country gentleman, living to outward seeming within the law—is one of them. They have a pair of shady Russian nobles, probably with ex-spy records. We have seen a Levantine financier with them. We know they have powerful connections in America. We know they have access to the criminal organization of the Gypsies. We have seen an Italian scientist—"
"He's no more Italian than you are," I interrupted. "He may be a scientist, but he's French."