He started. Inspector Sheffield stood beside him.
"Who was in that cab?" he rapped.
Sheard realised that the moment to which he had long looked forward with dread was come. He had been caught red-handed. At last Séverac Bablon had dared too greatly, and he, Sheard, must pay the price of that indiscretion.
"Why do you ask—and in that tone?"
"Mr. Sheard," said the detective grimly, "I've had my eye on you for a long while, as you must be well aware. You may not be aware that but for me you'd have been arrested long ago! I'm past the time when sensational arrests appeal to me, though. I'm out to hide scandals, not to turn the limelight on 'em. You're a well-known man, and it would break you, I take it, if I hauled you up for complicity? But I've got my responsibilities, too, remember; and I warn you—I warn you solemnly—if you bandy words with me now, I'll have you in Marlborough Street inside ten minutes!"
The buttons were off, and Sheard felt the point at his throat. For there was no mistaking the grim earnestness of the man from Scotland Yard. The kindly blue eyes were grown hard as steel, and in them the pressman read that upon his next words rested his whole career. A lie could avail his friend nothing; it meant his own ruin.
"Séverac Bablon!" he said.
"I knew that!" replied Sheffield; "you did well to admit it! Where has he gone?"
"I have no idea."
"Don't take any chances, sir! I'm tired of the responsibility of shielding the fools who know him! If you give me your word on that, I'll take it."