"Only one needs help," he replied, grimly; "the other——" He broke off abruptly. "But come to my rooms where we can talk without interruption," he added.
I was so amazed that I followed the man unquestioningly to a quiet turning off Burlington Street.
"Now," he said, when he had waved me to a chair and seated himself—"now we can talk freely."
"You ask for my help," I said, "and on behalf of some lady who is in danger. You talk in riddles, man; I——"
"Is it possible you do not know who she is?" he interrupted.
"No," I said, "I do not, nor do I know you either. All I know of the lady I can tell you in a few words," and then and there I told him of my meeting her at Felixstowe, my call at the house, her disappearance, and my recognition of her again in Piccadilly, which he himself had witnessed. "But I have never spoken to her," I concluded.
"But of the lady with her?" he interrupted eagerly, "the lady who met her in the street, and accompanied her in the hansom—was she there all the time?"
"The lady with her?" I repeated, slowly. "I hardly noticed her." And in very truth I had indeed hardly done so, having no eyes for anyone but my lady, and beyond the fact that she was pretty (as indeed she must needs be to so closely resemble my lady) I had not paid any attention to her. "There was a lady closely resembling her with her all the time," I continued, "and at one time another woman, and once a man."
"Dark, and with a scar on one cheek?" interposed my companion.
"Yes," I answered, slowly, for now he mentioned it I clearly recalled noticing a scar on the fellow's cheek.