“Well,” Harcutt said, “I have given you Densham’s message and my responsibility concerning it is ended. As you know, my own interests lie in a different direction. Now I want a few minutes’ conversation with you. The hotel rooms are a little too public. Are you in a hurry, or can you walk up and down the drive with me once or twice?”
“I can spare half an hour very well,” Wolfenden said; “but I should prefer to do no more walking just yet. Come and sit down here—it isn’t cold.”
They chose a seat looking over the sea. Harcutt glanced carefully all around. There was no possibility of their being overheard, nor indeed was there any one in sight.
“I am developing fresh instincts,” Harcutt said, as he crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. “I am here, I should like you to understand, purely in a professional capacity—and I want your help.”
“But my dear fellow,” Wolfenden said; “I don’t understand. If, when you say professionally, you mean as a journalist, why, what on earth in this place can there be worth the chronicling? There is scarcely a single person known to society in the neighbourhood.”
“Mr. Sabin is here!” Harcutt remarked quietly.
Wolfenden looked at him in surprise.
“That might have accounted for your presence here as a private individual,” he said; “but professionally, how on earth can he interest you?”
“He interests me professionally very much indeed,” Harcutt answered.
Wolfenden was getting puzzled.