But his manner had changed. He had now, I noted from the very impassive aspect of the man, a deep, a profound, a moving interest in this affair. He cursed softly as though he chopped the words with his teeth.
“Ten minutes too late!” he said. “Where did they go?”
Walker was motionless for a moment, his head down, his eyes narrowed in a profound reflection.
I interrupted him with a repetition of his words.
“Ten minutes too late!” I said. “You are two minutes too late. The taxicab has hardly disappeared in the traffic yonder.”
I pointed up the Avenue. Walker did not look up.
“I was thinking of Bartoldi,” he said. “I am ten minutes too late for Bartoldi.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Bartoldi could have told you who this man was. He must have known him.”
“Oh, no,” said Walker. “Bartoldi didn’t know him.”
I was astonished.