“To the limits of my ability,” Peter Ruff answered. “Madame will remember that we are not in Paris; that our police system, if not so wonderful as yours, is still a closer and a more present thing. They have not the brains at Scotland Yard, but they are persistent—hard to escape.”
“Do I not know it?” the woman said. “It is through them that we send for you. One of us is in danger.”
“Do I know him?” Peter Ruff asked.
“It is doubtful,” she answered. “Monsieur’s stay in Paris was so brief. If Monsieur will recognize his name—it is Jean Lemaitre himself.”
Peter Ruff started slightly.
“I thought,” he said, with some hesitation, “that Lemaitre did not visit this country.”
“He came well disguised,” the woman answered. “It was thought to be safe. Nevertheless, it was a foolish thing. They have tracked him down from hotel to apartments, till he lives now in the back room of a wretched little cafe in Soho. Even from there we cannot get him away—the whole district is watched by spies. We need help.”
“For a genius like Lemaitre,” Peter Ruff said, thoughtfully, “to have even thought of Soho, was foolish. He should have gone to Hampstead or Balham. It is easy to fool our police if you know how. On the other hand, they hang on to the scent like leeches when once they are on the trail. How many warrants are there out against Jean in this country?”
“Better not ask that,” the woman said, grimly. “You remember the raid on a private house in the Holloway Road, two years ago, when two policemen were shot and a spy was stabbed? Jean was in that—it is sufficient!”
“Are any plans made at all?” Peter Ruff asked.