Gethryn, lounging in the smoking-room meanwhile, was listening with delight to the bellowing of Sir Griffin Damby, who stood at the clerk’s desk in the hall.
“Don’t contradict me!” he roared—the weak-eyed clerk had not dreamed of doing so—“Don’t you contradict me! I tell you it’s the same man!”
“But Excellence,” entreated the clerk, “we do not know—”
“What! Don’t know! Don’t I tell you?”
“We will telegraph to Paris—”
“Telegraph to hell! Where’s my man? Here! Dawson! Do you remember that infernal Jew at Monaco? He’s here. He’s in there!” jerking an angry thumb at the café door. “Keep him in sight till the police come for him. If he says anything, kick him into the lake.”
Dawson bowed.
The clerk tried to say that he would telegraph instantly, but Sir Griffin barked in his face and snorted his way down the hall, followed by the valet.
Rex, laughing, threw down his cigarette and sauntered over to the clerk.
“Whom does the Englishman want kicked out?”