His nonchalance was far less real than it seemed, but helped to steady one who was holding herself together with a struggle, on the verge of nervous collapse.
"But what are we to do now?" she stammered. "If they've surrounded the house—!"
"Don't worry: there's more than one way out," he responded, frowning at the newspaper; "I wouldn't have picked this place out, otherwise. Nor would Solon have rented it in the first instance had it lacked an emergency exit, in event of creditors…. Ah—thought so!"
"What—?"
"Troyon's is gone," he said, without looking up. "This is to-night's Presse…. 'Totally destroyed by a fire which started at six-thirty this morning and in less than half an hour had reduced the ancient structure to a heap of smoking ashes'! …" He ran his eye quickly down the column, selecting salient phrases: "'Believed to have been of incendiary origin though the premises were uninsured'—that's an intelligent guess!… '_Narrow escape of guests in their 'whatyemaycallems….'Three lives believed to have been lost … one body recovered charred almost beyond recognition_'—but later identified as Roddy—poor devil! … 'Two guests missing, Monsieur Lanyard, the well-known connoisseur of art, who occupied the room adjoining that of the unfortunate detective, and Mademoiselle Bannon, daughter of the American millionaire, who himself escaped only by a miracle with his secretary Monsieur Greggs, the latter being overcome by fumes'—what a shame!… 'Police and firemen searching the ruins'—hm-hm—' extraordinary interest manifested by the Préfecture indicates a suspicion that the building may have been fired to conceal some crime of a political nature.'"
Crushing the newspaper between his hands, he tossed it into a corner. "That's all of importance. Thoughtful of Popinot to let me know, this way! The Préfecture, of course, is humming like a wasp's-nest with the mystery of that telegram, signed with Roddy's name and handed in at the Bourse an hour or so before he was 'burned to death.' Too bad I didn't know then what I do now; if I'd even remotely suspected Greggs' association with the Pack was via Bannon…. But what's the use? I did my possible, knowing the odds were heavy against success."
"What was written on the paper?" the girl demanded obliquely.
He made his eyes blank: "Written on the paper—?"
"I saw something in red ink at the head of the column. You tried to hide it from me, but I saw…. What was it?"
"Oh—that!" he laughed contemptuously: "just Popinot's impudence—an invitation to come out and be a good target."