Marsland pointed his thumb toward the body of Tim Waldron.
“To see him,” he said tersely.
“For what purpose?” came the question.
Marsland shrugged his shoulders.
A low laugh came from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Even to Marsland, the laugh was chilling. He shifted uneasily and stared narrowly at his inquisitor.
“Cliff Marsland!” said the whispered voice. “That was not your name — fourteen years ago — when you were overseas—”
Marsland stared incredulously as the voice trailed away. He moved slightly in his chair, seeking to gain a new angle from which to view the man in black. He was unsuccessful.
“Perhaps,” said the voice, “you remember the village of Esternay, in the Spring of ‘18 or, perhaps, that trip to Monte Carlo, three weeks after the Armistice? Do you recall Blanton, the Frenchman—”
Marsland half rose from his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his face suddenly tense, his body rigid with suppressed excitement.
“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely. “Who are you?”