“I have an instinct for espionage,” said the stranger, and went on, without a break: “I have called for Miss Mirabelle Leicester.”
Newton’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, you have, have you?” he said softly. “Miss Leicester is not in the house. She left a quarter of an hour ago.”
“I did not see her come out of the house?”
“No, the fact is, she went out by way of the mews. My—er”—he was going to say “sister” but thought better of it—“my young friend——”
“Flash Jane Smith,” said the stranger. “Yes?”
Newton’s colour deepened. He was rapidly reaching the point when his sang-froid, nine-tenths of his moral assets, was in danger of deserting him.
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked.
The stranger wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue, a curiously irritating action of his, for some inexplicable reason.
“My name is Leon Gonsalez,” he said simply.