M. de Cartienne removed his cigarette from his teeth, and looked dubious.
“Yes, I know Marx; know him well,” he admitted; “but your request puts me in rather an awkward position. You see, this is how the matter lies,” he added, leaning forward confidentially. “Marx and I are old friends, and he’s been of great service to me more than once, and never asked for any return. Well, I met him—I won’t say when, but it wasn’t long ago—in Pall Mall, and he hailed me as the very man he was most anxious to meet. We lunched together, and then he told me what he wanted. He was in London for a short while, he said, and wished to remain perfectly incognito. There would be letters for him, he said, at the Metropole. Would I fetch them, and forward them to him at an address which he would give me, on condition that I gave him my word of honour to keep it secret? I asked, naturally, what reason he had for going into hiding; for virtually that is what it seemed to me to be; but he would give me no definite answer. Would I do him this favour or not? he asked. And, remembering the many services which he had rendered me, I found it quite impossible to refuse. That is my position. I’m really extremely sorry not to be able to help you, but you see for yourself that I cannot.”
His tone was perfectly serious and his manner earnest. I had not the faintest shadow of doubt as to his sincerity.
“You can’t help me at all then?” I said, no doubt with some of the disappointment which I felt in my tone.
He looked doubtful.
“Well, I don’t quite know about that,” he said slowly, as though weighing something over in his mind. “Look here, Mr. Morton,” he added, frankly enough, “what do you want with the man? Is it anything unpleasant?”
“Not at all,” I answered. “I do not wish any harm to Mr. Marx unless he deserves it. I want to ask him a few questions, that’s all. Unless the man’s a perfect scoundrel he will be able to answer them satisfactorily, and my having discovered his whereabouts will not harm him. If, on the other hand, he cannot answer those questions, why, then, you may take my word for it, M. de Cartienne, that he’s an unmitigated blackguard, perfectly unworthy of your friendship, and undeserving of the slightest consideration from you.”
M. de Cartienne nodded and leaned forward, with his arm across the divan.
“You put the matter very plainly,” he said, “and what you say is fair enough. I’ll tell you how far I am prepared to help you. I won’t tell you Mr. Marx’s address, because I have pledged my word not to divulge it; but, if you like, I’ll take you where there will be a very fair chance of your seeing him.”
“He is in London, then?”