"You 're beginning excellently," I returned sincerely. "That's the way to look at a thing of this kind. If you 'll not forget that I 'm inclined to be kindly disposed toward you, why, I dare say we can, between us, clear up whatever mystery there is in one-two-three order.
"For example, why you came here last night—your business with Mr. Page—when you tell me that perhaps—"
I stopped. Maillot's face had suddenly become a mirror of consternation.
"Good God, Swift!" he gasped, recoiling, "I—I can't do that!"
I promptly grew grave. And then, from the head of the stairs, came the slow, colorless voice of Alexander Burke.
"How about the Paternoster ruby, Mr. Maillot?" inquired he.
Maillot's hands closed spasmodically; his teeth clicked together; and he slewed round like a released spring.
Next instant, had it not been for the intervening stairs and Stodger's and my quick interposition of our bodies between the two men, matters certainly would have gone hard with the private secretary. Maillot's temper was like gunpowder; the quiet question seemed to sting him to an unreasonable fury.
"You—you spy! You dirty sneak!" he snarled viciously.