"It wouldn't matter if you were a detective," he said. "I've done nothing wrong. Whatever I do is always legitimate. I've got nothing to worry about."
"No?"
The peculiar accent of the question puzzled Powell. It increased his nervousness. He wanted to know who this man was.
"What is your name?" he demanded bluntly.
"Harry Vincent," was the reply. "The same name in Baltimore as in New York."
"I never heard of you," Powell countered.
"You might have — if I had been in Paris a few weeks ago!"
Powell did not reply. He became restless, and chewed his lips. He wanted to question the stranger further, but seemed unwilling to begin. Harry Vincent saved him the trouble.
"When you were in Paris," said Harry quietly, "you met an old friend — a man much older than yourself, and one who was much wealthier. I refer to Herbert Brockley."
Powell did not reply.