IT was Michael Senov, caught entirely unawares. The Russian sat dumfounded. At a gesture from Cliff, he slowly raised his arms, uttering low, questioning words in Russian.
Cliff did not recognize the language. Senov, noting that the intruder appeared to be an American, tried English.
“What do you do here?” he asked.
“I have come to find out what you are doing here,” retorted Cliff. “What is this place — a hideout?”
Senov looked puzzled. He did not understand the term that Cliff had used.
“What do you know about David Tholbin?”
Senov stared as Cliff put the question. The Russian realized that he was dealing with a threat from an unexpected angle. He had hoped that Tholbin was free from all suspicion. Now, he knew that his hope was wrong.
“David Tholbin is sailing on the steamship Gasconne,” declared Cliff coldly. “It has been my business to learn that fact, which you doubtless know. I intend to spend half an hour here at the most. In that time I shall find out why you have dealt with Tholbin.”
Senov shrugged his shoulders. Cliff realized that the man was stalling for time. Cliff’s eyes hardened, and Senov saw the look. He knew that he was dealing with a man as unyielding as himself.
“Tell me” — Cliff’s tone was emphatic — “what is taking place on the Gasconne! Speak!”