“I do not think,” Harcutt said, “that you will find him overburdened with gratitude. He does not seem that sort of man.”
“I do not want any gratitude from him,” Wolfenden answered, deliberately. “So far as the man himself is concerned I should rather prefer never to see him again. By the bye, did either of you fellows follow them home last night?”
Harcutt and Densham exchanged quick glances. Wolfenden had asked his question quietly, but it was evidently what he had come to know.
“Yes,” Harcutt said, “we both did. They are evidently people of some consequence. They went first to the house of the Russian Ambassador, Prince Lobenski.”
Wolfenden swore to himself softly. He could have been there. He made a mental note to leave a card at the Embassy that afternoon.
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards they drove to a house in Chilton Gardens, Kensington, where they remained.”
“The presumption being, then——” Wolfenden began.
“That they live there,” Harcutt put in. “In fact, I may say that we ascertained that definitely. The man’s name is ‘Sabin,’ and the girl is reputed to be his niece. Now you know as much as we do. The relationship, however, is little more than a surmise.”