Looking back now, I see clearly that I was guilty of the grossest folly in answering as I did. But I was young, impetuous, conscious of great physical strength, and with all that contempt of danger which such consciousness brings. So, without hesitation, I drew from my pocket the evening paper which I had bought in Northumberland Avenue, and laid my finger upon the column which I had shown my father.
“This may have something to do with it,” I remarked.
His face grew a shade paler as he glanced it through. Then he folded it up and handed it back to me with a polite gesture.
“So that is your idea, is it?” he remarked. “Why didn’t you go to Scotland Yard and tell them of your suspicions?”
I felt that he was watching me keenly and made a great effort to remain composed, although my pulses were beating fast and I felt my colour rising.
“It was no business of mine,” I answered. “Besides, if I had done so I should have lost my chance of finding out anything about Mr. Marx from you.”
“Your reasoning does you infinite credit,” he answered, with a slight sneer. “You are quite a Machiavelli. Come; I want to show you over my—warehouse.”
I followed him reluctantly, for I liked his manner less and less; but I had scarcely an alternative.
We passed along a narrow passage and through several rooms piled up to the ceiling with huge bales; then we descended a winding flight of iron steps, and as we reached the bottom I began to hear a faint hum of voices and strange, muffled sounds.
He unlocked a small, hidden door before us, and we stood on the threshold of a large, dimly-lit cellar.