“Perhaps,” he said, “we had better see if the trunks got on. We have nearly ten minutes to wait.”
And he walked away toward the great stair leading to the baggage room.
The girl did not move; she did not speak; she remained as she had stood in Bartoldi’s shop, her head down, concealed as far as she was able to conceal it, under the drooping hat loaded with soiled roses. Walker was crossing toward the great stair in his long stride and I hurrying in my astonishment to overtake him.
“The devil, man!” I cried when I came up. “Why did you give him my diamond?”
“I wanted to see if there was a scar in his hand,” said Walker. “He had it.”
“Then you know him?”
“Surely,” said Walker.
“Aren’t you going to arrest him?”
Walker had returned to his careless manner.
“No,” he said, “I am not going to arrest him. You saw his hands go into his pockets. There would have been a lot of people killed if it hadn’t been for your diamond. It’s lucky I thought of it; besides, I had to see the inside of his hand.”