“Now, you know well enough, Mr. Pawlinson,” said I sheepishly, “that my interference at the launch was natural enough when you grant that I knew nothing of the circumstances, and——”
“Enough of that!” he said. “I’m not harboring any resentment any more, though I still have a bit of a game leg as a souvenir of the incident. But what I do want to know—and what has made me follow you closely from Garth’s to this very moment—is: Just where do you stand in this matter? Are you entirely—now that you understand the thing—are you my man?”
“Why, of course,” I replied, in as convincing a tone as I could command. But somehow it didn’t ring overtrue; for, in spite of myself, I simply couldn’t cotton to this man.
“But now, in turn”—I changed my tone—“I should like to know——”
Here the cab swung a corner violently; then we took to the evener going of a well-macadamized road, which seemed to lead almost indefinitely in a dead straight line.
“We’re dogging ’em close,” said I, pointing to the rear of the cab we were pursuing. “He’s a good man,” I added, indicating our driver.
“Good enough,” replied Pawlinson shortly. “But what do you intend to do next? Just what is the lay, anyway?”
He certainly could make me feel like a fool; and, as a matter of cold fact, I certainly had acted, so far, with every trait of the tyro. Indeed, I had simply counted upon locating the man and wiring the chief of his whereabouts. But now what was I really counting upon doing?
“It’s plain enough we’ve got to dog ’em as close as we can,” said I finally. “I don’t see any better way now, do you?”
“No, not now,” he replied. “But I have heard of better preparedness in my time. But come, come, Grey”—and his tone lightened perceptibly—“we’re in this thing together, and there’s no use of us rasping against each other any more. I really stand in need of a man, and I hope you’ll prove to be he. This case really means a lot to——”