I passed the note on to my father and drew him a little on one side. At the sight of the handwriting he started.
“Philip, whose writing is this?” he asked quickly.
“The writing of the man who alone knows where Marx is,” I answered. “It is he who calls for his letters and forwards them.”
“His name? I insist upon knowing his name.”
“de Cartienne.”
My father’s face turned a shade paler and his eyebrows contracted.
“You have been keeping this from me, Philip. You shall not go near that man. I forbid it. My God! Marx and de Cartienne friends!”
He stopped short on the pavement and looked at me with a new light in his face. He began to understand.
“Marx and de Cartienne,” he repeated slowly. “Philip, cannot you see what this means? Marx has been de Cartienne’s tool and I have been their victim. Where is de Cartienne? Philip, you shall tell me! Do you hear?”
My father seized my arm and held it fast. I turned and faced him.