"He's Séverac Bablon!" he said simply. "Does your late visitor answer to the description?"
"My visitor was a gentleman who wanted funds for building a home for invalid children!"
"You're sure it wasn't our man, miss?"
("And you will be my friend" he had asked. "I will try," had been her promise.)
"I am quite sure my visitor was not a criminal of any kind!" she answered. "You have made a strange mistake!"
The inspector bowed and quitted the room immediately. Mr. Oppner stood for some moments watching his daughter—and then followed the officer. Zoe went to her room, and allowed her maid to dress her, without proposing a solitary alteration in the scheme. She was very preoccupied. In the lounge she found her father deep in conversation with a clean-shaven man who had the features and complexion of a Sioux, and wore a tweed suit which to British eyes must have appeared several sizes too large for him. His Stetson was tilted well to the rear of his skull, and he lay back smoking a black cheroot. This was Aloys X. Alden of Pinkerton's. Zoe hesitated. The conversation clearly was a business one.
And, at that moment, a tall figure appeared beside her.
Zoe drew a sharp breath—almost a breath of pain. She glanced toward the group of two in the distant corner. They were discussing, as she knew quite well, various plans for the apprehension of the man who had become a nightmare to certain capitalists. They were devising, or seeking to devise, schemes for penetrating the secret of his real identity—for peering beneath the mask of the real man.
And here, by her side, stood Séverac Bablon!
"Pray, pray go!" she whispered tremulously. "I thought you had left the hotel. For your own sake, if not for mine, you should have done so."