They were walking through the streets now toward the hut of Mother Jenny.
Sam suddenly stopped short and struck his forehead with his hand, as if striving to recollect something. Then he shouted:
“Why, why, it was a young man with a sun helmet who was talking to Jarrold at the hotel this morning.”
“So?” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Can this be more of that rascal’s villainy? Has he got a finger in this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” declared Sam vehemently. “He hates Jack, and with good cause from his point of view, for Jack checkmated several of his schemes.”
“In Paris and again here, Jarrold,” muttered De Garros to himself, as if recalling some latent memory. “Some day, my friend, you will meet your reckoning.”
“You knew Jarrold abroad?” asked Sam.
“I knew him, yes. I was his victim, almost—but let us talk no more of this. Let us hurry to the place where I last saw Jack Ready.”
When they reached the hut with its palm thatch and untidy garden, Sam gave a gesture of disgust.
“And this is the place you saw Jack being helped out of?” he asked.