A little farther on he stopped the taxi and beckoned to one of those street-arabs who make a living about the kerb.
"Go to the gentleman with the beard, on the steps of the Gaiety," he instructed that very alert messenger, "and say to him that a friend wants a word with him here."
Sallie observed the suppressed grimace of surprise on the face of the individual who almost at once arrived in the wake of his ragged Mercury: and Slyne, having tossed the latter a shilling, held out his hand to M. Dubois.
"Charmed to see you in London, mon confrère," said he. "Have you yet discovered your man?"
"I am hard at his heels," the detective answered, his eyes searching Slyne's as if, Sallie thought, for some sign that that shaft had hit home.
But Slyne's expression was one of ingenuous simplicity. He bowed, as if with deep respect.
"I caught a glimpse of some one most amazingly like myself, one day on the Faubourg St. Honoré, as I was passing through Paris," he mentioned reflectively.
"Thanks," returned Dubois. "It was he, no doubt. And—he's in London now."
Slyne did not wince, even at that.
"He was dining at the Savoy to-night," said Dubois indifferently. "How does your own affair progress?"