“When you say ‘making inquiries’,” he continued, looking straight before him, “I hope you don’t mean setting other people on his track?”
“He’s fair game!” I could not help saying; for there were moments when I chafed under this scrupulous fidelity to our self-denying ordinance.
“He’s our game, or nobody’s,” said Davies, sharply.
“Oh, I’ll keep the secret,” I rejoined.
“Let’s stick together,” he broke out. “I shall make a muck of it without you. And how are we to communicate—meet?”
“Somehow—that can wait. I know it’s a leap in the dark, but there’s safety in darkness.”
“Carruthers! what are we talking about? If they have the ghost of a notion where we have been to-day, you give us away by packing off to London. They’ll think we know their secret and are clearing out to make use of it. That means arrest, if you like!”
“Pessimist! Haven’t I written proof of good faith in my pocket—official letters of recall, received to-day? It’s one deception the less, you see; for those letters may have been opened; skilfully done it’s impossible to detect. When in doubt, tell the truth!”
“It’s a rum thing how often it pays in this spying business,” said Davies thoughtfully.
We had been tramping through deserted streets under the glare of electricity, I with my leaden shuffle, he with the purposeful forward stoop and swinging arms that always marked his gait ashore.