“Bertrand,” she said, “if I were you, I’d make it to-morrow night....”
He called a taximeter cab, and drove rapidly to Berkeley Square. In the room where she usually sat he found Rachael, looking through a pile of foreign newspapers.
“Well?” she said, peering into his face. “You have bad news. I can see that. What is it?”
“Helga has just sent for me,” he answered. “She says that she has had one or two mysterious visitors to-day and yesterday. One of them she feels sure was a detective.”
“Huntley has just telephoned up,” Rachael said calmly. “Something of the same sort of thing happened at the office in the Charing Cross Road. Huntley acted like a man of sense. He closed it up at once, destroyed all papers, and sent Dorrington over to Paris by the morning train.”
Saton sat down, and buried his face in his hands.
“Rachael,” he said, “this must stop. I cannot bear the anxiety of it. It is terrible to feel to-day that one is stretching out toward the great things, and to-morrow that one is finding the money to live by fooling people, by charlatanism, by roguery. Think if we were ever connected with these places, if even a suspicion of it got about! Think how narrow our escape was before! Remember that I have even stood in the prisoner’s dock, and escaped only through your cleverness, and an accident. It might happen again, Rachael!”
“It shall not,” she answered. “I would go there myself first. It is well for you to talk, Bertrand, but you and I are neither of us fond of simple things. We must live. We must have money.”
“We live extravagantly,” he said.