“I’ll get it! Now a number of other things, Sir Richard—â€� Fay turned and stared at the lurking figure of the Scotch inspector. MacKeenon lifted his hand and stroked his jaw with a sly motion. His eyes swung from Fay’s to Sir Richard’s. They held the glint of the manhunter and the hound. A tawny fire was in them.
For the second time that evening there came an air of tenseness into the room. Fay felt it as he watched the Scotch inspector. Try, as he should, he could never get over the feeling that the detective was his born enemy.
MacKeenon was so like a waiting collie. The leathern pouches of the Scot—the curl to his lips—the fang-like teeth, all made this thing seem real.
With Sir Richard Colstrom there was this difference. The chief had traveled far. He had taken the pains to acquire some of the argot of the underworld. He was rated square—after he caught his quarry. Fay could never believe that a manhunter played a fair game in running down criminals. There was too much oral evidence to the contrary. There had been a number of stool-pigeons in his life. To him, the despicable thing about the game was the traitors.
Born a gentleman’s son and riding swiftly through a moderate fortune, Fay had taken the easier way. He had paid! There were other convictions beside the Hatton Gardens affair recorded at Scotland Yard.
Freedom was a precious thing. He gripped his lips with his teeth and counted ten before he said to Sir Richard:
“One of the conditions of this matter is that I have no hell-hounds of the law trailing me!�
Sir Richard glanced at MacKeenon. The two men understood each other down to the fraction of a glance.
“That’s all right,� said Sir Richard soothingly. “You can go scot-free. All we want is the key to the cipher. Then, afterwards, you can wear that perfectly good suit to the States instead of donning the broad arrow at Dartmoor.�
“Fine!â€� said Fay without warmth. “Now another matter—â€�