"We've got to get him away from here—out into the country somewhere—and lose him." Harry Horton's voice.
"Why?" growled a voice in English.
"Moira Quinlevin knows the truth."
An oath from Tricot as the other translated.
"Who told her?"
"No one. She guessed it."
"Parbleu! We shall take no chances then."
"You must take him away—a cab—out into the country," said Harry's voice again.
"And leave him to recover and set the police on us? Not much. He'll have to go the long road."
"My God! No. Not that!" cried Harry.