"At the railroad crossing."
"You will be there at nine?"
"I will."
"I will meet you and be very much obliged to you," said our hero, and raising his hat like an Italian count he walked away.
Oscar understood his risk, but he understood more. He knew that he was on the track of some one. A great game had been played. He connected all the little incidents—the face at the window, the dark face of a man with glittering eyes, then the woman so handily on the stoop of an adjoining house. Then again her admissions to a false identity, for our hero had invented both names that he had given the girl. All these little incidents proved that he had been observed, that he had aroused a suspicion as to his design, and that the observation and suspicion could only be aroused in one who feared something—possibly feared being seen and tracked.
After the girl had seen our hero pass from view, she entered the house at the window of which Oscar had seen the dark face. In the room was a desperate-looking man—a man one would fear to meet at night alone, for every lineament betrayed the man to be a desperate scoundrel.
When the girl returned the man asked, as she entered the room, he speaking in Italian:
"Who is he?"
"I do not know."
"What is his purpose?"