Chichester sat down. It had been evident to Stepton from the moment when his visitor came in that he was in great agony of mind. There was in his face a sort of still and abject misery which Stepton thought exceedingly promising. As he turned round, leaning his sharp elbow on his writing-table, Stepton was considering how to exploit this misery for the furthering of his purpose.
"I want you to tell me something," Chichester began. "I want to know why your attention was first attracted to me. I feel sure that you must be able to give a reason. What is it?"
"Well, now, I wish I could," returned Stepton.
To himself he gave the swift admonition, "Play for hysteria, and see what comes of it."
"I wish I could; but it's a mystery to me. But now—let's see."
He knitted his heavy brows.
"A long while ago I picked a man out, met him in a crowd, at the Crystal Palace, followed him about, couldn't get away from him. That same evening he was killed on the underground. I read of it in the paper, went to see the body, and there was my man."
"Do you claim to have some special faculty?" asked Chichester.
"Oh, dear, no. Besides, you haven't been killed on the underground—yet."
A curious expression that seemed mingled of disappointment and of contempt passed across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and told himself, "No hysteria."