“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Dick pondered a moment. Should he take de Smirnoff into his confidence? He looked earnestly at the Russian’s face; the broad brow and clever, handsome eyes, the slightly aquiline nose, and the firm, thin-lipped mouth—he looked what he was: a keen, brilliant officer of the Secret Service, brave to a fault, secretive perhaps, but withal a gentleman. Quickly Dick made up his mind to trust him.
“Because the fourth masked man was an American,” he answered, slowly. Long, as well as de Smirnoff, glanced at him in surprise. “It was Alfred Clark.”
“Well, by gad!” muttered Long, completely taken aback.
De Smirnoff looked inquiringly at Dick.
“I went to Anacostia to cover an assignment for my paper,” the latter hastened to explain. “While I was waiting for a Washington car, Clark passed me. I never trusted the fellow, and seeing him there on such a night and at that hour made me suspect that he was up to no good. So I followed him, with what results you already know.”
“Did you overhear much of their talk?”
“Enough to know that the men were plotting to assassinate the Grand Duke at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial. Then they spoke of the Trevor murder.”
“What did they say about it?” asked Long, as Dick stopped to strike a match.
“If I remember correctly, Clark asked some question which I did not catch, and Tamaso replied: ‘The Trevor affair is in the hands of Giovanni Savelli. But are you not his direct agent?’ In trying to hear Clark’s reply I leaned too far forward and fell through the skylight.