There was a curiously set look of relentless purpose in Gastineau’s eyes as he turned; one which, among all the varying expressions he had noticed, Herriard had never seen there before. It was the look with which a Prelate of the Inquisition might have watched a victim in the torture chamber.
“A reckoning between us, Mr. Herriard, seems more pressing than I had supposed.” He spoke with tight lips just opening enough to clip out the words. Herriard said nothing; only stood watchfully expectant with, now, a thought of Martindale’s fate suggesting itself. So he waited for the other to declare the intention that was manifestly in his mind.
Gastineau stood with his hands behind him; pale, thin almost to frailness, but the very embodiment of mental boldness; the courage of the head, that can unhesitatingly attack greater strength of body.
“So,” he said slowly, “the business that kept you away from Devereux Street to-night was the writing of a letter to say you could not come.”
“Hardly that.”
“Perhaps your visitor detained you,” Gastineau continued, in a key which was the prelude of mischief, the muttering of a coming storm. “Your visitor,” he pointed to the card, “Detective—what’s his name?—Quickjohn. I do not quite understand you, Mr. Herriard. May I ask what Inspector Quickjohn came to see you about?”
“About the Vaux House business,” Herriard answered curtly.
“Ah! Why does he come to see you about it?”
“Sir Henry Ferrars sent him. He knows I am interested in the case.”
“And what had he to tell you?”