“I forgive you for the deception which you allowed me to practice upon myself that night when you came to my house. It was a clever ruse, monsieur, and most remarkable for a boy of your years. My best man could scarcely excel it.”
Ethan laughed.
“You do me too much honor, M. Fochard. It was chance that took me to your house, and chance that carried the matter on.”
“Very modest—very commendable,” said the other with a wave of his hand. “But I prefer to believe that it was a set plan; it would not do for Fochard to admit that he was outwitted by blind chance.”
He had been sitting sipping his black coffee at a table directly behind; now he dragged his chair forward to theirs and sat twirling the heavy seals upon his watch-guard. He spent a few moments in silent contemplation of both; then he asked:
“Would it be too much if I inquired how you learned that Siki had returned to Paris?”
“I did not know that he had,” returned Ethan.
The secret agent regarded him with a smile.
“My dear fellow,” said he stretching his trim silk stockinged legs beneath the table, “how can you say that when the man sits before you?”
As he spoke he made a gesture toward the three men at the door; Ethan glanced at the man in the cloak; he caught sight of a dark, long-fingered subtle looking hand which was thrust from beneath it. It was true; this man must be the Lascar.