“Say, Captain,” he murmured, “you ain’t pulling my leg by any chance, are you?”
“I am not,” said Drummond shortly. “I was told, before I met him, that the gentleman over there was one of the boys.... He is, most distinctly. In fact, though up to date such matters have not been much in my line, I should put him down as a sort of super-criminal. I wonder what name he is passing under here?”
The American ceased pulling at his cigar.
“Do they vary?”
“In England he is clean-shaven, possesses a daughter, and answers to Carl Peterson. As he is at present I should never have known him, but for that little trick of his.”
“Possesses a daughter!” For the first time the detective displayed traces of excitement. “Holy Smoke! It can’t be him!”
“Who?” demanded Drummond.
But the other did not answer. Out of the corner of his eye he was watching three men who had just joined the subject of their talk, and on his face was a dawning amazement. He waited till the whole party had gone into the restaurant, then, throwing aside his caution, he turned excitedly on Drummond.
“Are you certain,” he cried, “that that’s the man who has been monkeying with Potts?”
“Absolutely,” said Hugh. “He recognised me; whether he thinks I recognised him or not, I don’t know.”