"I promise," said Florence, struggling with a sob.
Jones went down-stairs again, paused by a window as if cogitating, and suddenly threw it up and looked abroad. A rustle among the lilacs caused a smile to flit across his face. So they had sent some one to learn the effect of the poison? Or to follow him should he leave the house? He retired to the kitchen and gave some explicit orders to the chef, orders which did not in any way refer to cooking. Then Jones and the reporter left the house, each quite aware that they were being followed. Near the Blank Hotel they separated in order to confuse the stalker. He might dodder and follow the wrong man. But it was evident that this time he had been directed to follow Jones; for he entered the hotel a minute after Jones.
Meantime a second spy, whom Jones had not seen, had observed the transfer of the invisible writing and had immediately informed Braine, who was not far away. That his poisoned fruit had stricken down an outsider troubled him none at all. But that mysterious message he meant to have; it might be a life and death affair, it might be a clue to the treasure, or the whereabouts of Hargreave.
Thus, while only one man followed Jones, several kept a far eye on Jim.
Jones scribbled his name on a blank card and had it taken to the Russian's room. The page eyed that card curiously. It was different from anything he had ever seen before. In one corner were written three or four words which resembled a cross between Hebrew and Greek.
"Humph!" muttered the boy. "Whadda y' know about that? Chicken scratches; but I guess the bell rings Roosian. On your way, Hortense," he cried to the hall maid, who wanted a look at the card. "Up t' th' room, sir. He'll see yuh!" The boy kept the silver salver extended expectantly, but Jones went past without apparently noticing the hint.
The Russian was standing by a window when Jones knocked and was bidden to enter.
"You are not Hargreave."
"Neither are you the Russian minister of police," urbanely.
"Who are you?"