Rutter's was reached at length, and after some preliminaries the cigar-case was approached. Merritt took it up, with a well-feigned air of astonishment.
"Why, this must have belonged to my old friend, B—," he exclaimed.
"It's not new?"
"No, sir," the assistant explained. "We purchased it from a gentleman who stayed for a day or two here at the Lion, a friend of Mr. Reginald Henson."
"A tall man?" said Merritt, tentatively. "Long, thin beard and slightly marked with small-pox? Gave the name of Rawlins?"
"That's the gentleman, sir. Perhaps you may like to purchase the case?"
The purchase was made in due course, and together Chris and her queer companion left the shop.
"Rawlins is an American swindler of the smartest type," said Merritt. "If you get him in a corner ask him what he and Henson were doing in America some two years ago. Rawlins is in this little game for certain. But you ought to trace him by means of the Lion people. Oh, lor'!"
Merritt slipped back into an entry as a little, cleanshaven man passed along the street. His eyes had a dark look of fear in them.
"They're after me," he said, huskily. "That was one of them. Excuse me, miss."
Merritt darted away and flung himself into a passing cab. His face was dark with passion; the big veins stood out on his forehead like cords.