He looked at his companion, clad in a neat-fitting business suit of blue, his blond hair combed straight back under the carelessly-tilted Alpine, and felt that the smaller man was one not to be despised. "A man of brains," thought Mark, as he noted the keen intelligent look from the blue eyes set in a face that, though somewhat irregular in feature, bespoke strong determination.
Mentally, the two men were matched. Should they ever be pitted against each other, it would be impossible for anyone to determine offhand which would be the victor.
The agent was disposed to be surly during the walk to the hotel, for he had become suspicious. Why had the fool Englishman done this thing? Did he know or suspect that the supposed book agent was really a detective? Did he know the woman? Was he in her confidence? How had she disappeared so quickly?
Saunders found it difficult to keep up even a semblance of interest in the conversation, for Mark gave him little time to think. He plied him with friendly questions until the detective wondered if his companion were a fool, or someone "on the inside." He wished that Mark would stop his chattering long enough to let him do the questioning. But Mark went right on.
"How's the book trade? Bad, I'll wager, so far from town. Why aren't you working?"
Saunders had to think quickly.
"Oh, I took an afternoon off; business has off days, you know."
"Of course. Any success this morning?"
"One order. Took me a month to get it—from the Padre."
"Ah!"