Sheard laughed dryly, and relighted his pipe. Séverac Bablon's trick of replying to unspoken questions was too singular to be forgotten lightly.
"Mr. Hohsmann is now of my friends," continued the strange visitor. "You received the paragraph? Ah! I see it appears in your later edition."
"But Jesson?"
"Sir Leopold can never be my friend, nor do I desire it. There is an incident in his career——You understand? I do not reproach him with it. It should never have been recalled to him had he held his purse-strings less tightly. But it served as a lever. It was a poor one, for, though he does not know it, I would cast stones at no man. But it served. He has made his contribution. I begin to achieve something, Sheard. The Times has a leader in the press showing how the Jews are the backbone of British prosperity, and truer patriots than any whose fathers crossed with Norman William."
He ceased speaking, abruptly, and with his eyes, drew Sheard's attention again to the window. Since Séverac Bablon's arrival, indeed, the journalist had glanced thither often enough. But, now, he perceived something which made him wonder.
There was a street lamp at the corner of the road, and, his own table-lamp leaving the further window in shade, it was possible to detect the presence of anything immediately outside by its faint shadow.
Something round was pressed upon a corner of the lower pane.
Séverac Bablon stepped to the table and scribbled upon a sheet of paper:—
"He has some kind of portable telephonic arrangement designed for the purpose, attached to the glass. No doubt he can follow our conversation. He may attempt to hold me up as I leave the house. He cannot enter, of course, or we could arrest him on a charge of housebreaking! You have a back gate. If you will permit me to pass through your domestic offices and your garden, I will leave by that exit. Continue to talk for some minutes after I am gone. Do not fear that there is any evidence of my having been here. Alden can prove nothing."
Replacing the pencil on the tray: