"My dear Sheard"—Séverac Bablon's musical voice was untroubled by any trace of apprehension—"there is no occasion to worry! Mr. Aloys. X. Alden looked in!"
"But——"
"Had it been Inspector Sheffield there had been some cause for excitement. Inspector Sheffield, if I am rightly informed, holds a warrant for my arrest. Mr. Alden is an unofficial investigator."
"But he can call a constable!"
"Reflect, Sheard. If he calls a constable, what happens?"
"You are arrested!"
"Not so; but I will grant you that much for the sake of argument. To whom would the credit fall?"
"Patently, Mr. Alden."
"Wrong! You know that it is wrong! The official service would reap every gain! Believe me, Sheard, Mr. Alden will not reveal my presence here to a living soul! He may try to trap me when I leave, but there will be no clamouring on the door by members of the Metropolitan Police force, as you seemingly apprehend!"
Séverac Bablon threw himself into the big arm-chair, and lighted a cigarette—a yellow cigarette.