"I am that man," replied John.
"These are secret papers which I am to deliver into your hands. There is a fortune to be made if you keep secret."
John took the short story.
"Secrecy shall be observed," said he.
CHAPTER VIII
THE FATEFUL TICKET-PUNCHER
The master of the good ship Albatross departed, chartered for another voyage to the Port of Lagos with his cargo of gravel, gathered with the sweat of the brow and the tearing of the finger nails from the paths in Kensington Gardens.
John hid the short story away and lit a cigarette. She watched him take it loose from his waistcoat pocket. Had he no cigarette case? She watched him take a match--loose also--from the ticket pocket of his coat. Had he no match-box? She watched him strike it upon the sole of his boot, believing all the time that he was unaware of the direction of her eyes.
But he knew. He knew well enough, and took as long over the business as it was possible to be. When the apprehension of discovery made her turn her head, he threw the match away. Well, it was a waste of time then.
"I thought," said she presently, "you had told me your name was John?"