Barnes looked at Michael in suspicious astonishment. “What do you want to know for?” he asked.
“Mere inquisitiveness,” Michael assured him. “You really needn’t treat me like a detective, you know.”
“My mistake,” said Barnes. “But really, Fane. Let’s see, that is your name? Thought it was. I don’t often forget a name. No, without swank, Fane, I’ve been hounded off my legs lately. I’m living in Leppard Street. Pimlico way.”
“I’d like to come and see you some time,” said Michael.
“Here, straight, what is your game?” Barnes could not conceal his suspicion.
“Inquisitiveness,” Michael declared again. “Also I rather want a Sancho Panza.”
“Oh, of course, any little thing I can do to oblige,” said Barnes very sarcastically.
It took Michael a long time to convince him that no plot was looming, but at last he persuaded him to come to 173 Cheyne Walk, and after that he knew that Barnes could not refuse to show him Leppard Street.