The man showed no signs of confusion. Mannering, as he looked sternly into his face, lost all fear of personal assault. He was neatly but shabbily dressed, pale, and with a slight red moustache. He had a somewhat broad forehead, eyes with more than an ordinary lustre, and, in somewhat striking contradiction to the rest of his features, a large sensitive mouth with a distinctly humorous curve. Even now its corners were receding into a smile, which had in it, however, other elements than mirth alone.
"You are Mr. Lawrence Mannering?"
"That is my name," Mannering answered, "but if you want to speak to me why don't you come up like a man, instead of dogging my footsteps? It looked as though you wanted to take me by surprise. What is that you are hiding up your sleeve?"
The man held it out, placed it even in Mannering's hand.
"A life preserver, steel, as you see, and with a beautiful spring. Deadly weapon, isn't it, sir? Even a half-hearted sort of blow might kill a man."
Mannering swung the weapon lightly in his hand. It cut the air with a soft, sickly swish.
"What were you doing following me, on tiptoe, with this in your hand?" he asked, sternly.
"Well," the man answered, as though forced to confess an unpleasant truth, "I am very much afraid that I was going to hit you with it."
Mannering looked up and down the street for a policeman.
"Indeed!" he said. "And may I ask why you changed your mind?"