The boy having ridden off, Alden slipped warily out on to the road, ran across, and was lost to view. Presently a rustling in the bushes told of his return to Oppner's side.
"It's from Sheard," whispered the detective. "Our man must have written him further particulars, same as he said he'd do. It just reads: 'Detained. S.' But it was handed in at Fleet Street, and I haven't any doubt who sent it."
"He's smart, is Sheard," said Mr. Oppner. "He smelled trouble, or maybe he got wise to us——"
"Sss!"
"That you, Martin?"—from Alden.
"All right. Everybody seems to be posted. They're all finely out of sight, too."
"Good. The newspaper man isn't coming. See me get the wire?"
"Yes. I wonder if the rest will come."
"Hope so. I don't want to have to open the ball, because until some visitors have gone in we haven't got any real evidence that Séverac Bablon is there himself."
"Quiet," said Martin.