"Indeed, sir, indeed," said the old gentleman. "I envy you, sir. I only wish my own duties permitted me to winter entirely abroad."
"It has its advantages," I admitted, "but in some ways I am quite pleased to be back again."
My companion nodded his head. "For one thing," he said, "one gets terribly behindhand with English news. I find that even the best of the foreign papers are painfully ill-informed."
A sudden mischievous thought came into my head. "I have hardly seen a paper of any kind for a fortnight!" I said. "Is there any particular news? The last interesting thing I saw was about that young fellow's escape from Dartmoor—that young inventor—what was his name?—who was in for murder."
The old gentleman looked up sharply. "Ah! Lyndon," he said, "Neil
Lyndon you mean. He is still at large."
"From what I read of the case," I went on carelessly, "it seems rather difficult to help sympathizing with him—to a certain extent. The man he murdered doesn't appear to have been any great loss to the community."
My companion opened his mouth as if to speak, and then hesitated. "Well, as a matter of fact I am scarcely in a position to discuss the subject," he said courteously. "Perhaps, sir, you are unaware who I am?"
He asked the question with a slight touch of self-conscious dignity, which showed me that in his own opinion at all events he was a person of considerable importance. I looked at him again more carefully. There seemed to be something familiar about his face, but beyond that I was utterly at sea.
"The fact is, I have been so much abroad," I began apologetically—
He cut me short by producing a little silver case from his pocket and handing me one of his cards.