“I am delighted to be assured that you recognize that fact,” Peter admitted.
“I might add,” John Dory continued, “that this harmlessness—is of recent date.”
“Really, you do seem to know a good deal,” Peter confessed.
“I find myself still fencing,” Dory declared. “A matter of habit, I suppose. I didn’t mean to when I came. I made up my mind to tell you simply that Guillot was in London, and to ask you if you could help me to get rid of him.”
Peter looked thoughtfully into his companion’s face, but he did not speak. He understood at such moments the value of silence.
“We speak together,” Dory continued softly, “as men who understand one another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I alone, mind you—it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna. He has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be caught. At the same time, wherever he arrives the thunder-clouds gather. He leaves behind him always a trail of evil deeds.”
“Very well put,” Peter murmured. “Quite picturesque.”
“Can you help me to get rid of him?” Dory inquired. “I have my hands full just now, as you can imagine, what with the political crisis and these constant mass meetings. I want Guillot out of the country. If you can manage this for me, I shall be your eternal debtor.”
“Why do you imagine,” Peter asked, “that I can help you in this matter?”
There was a brief silence. John Dory knocked the ash from his cigar.