“Yes,” I answered, myself confounded.
“Well, that’s the fellow I saw in St. James’s Park, and who got away so neatly from Ebury Street—you remember?”
“That man!” I gasped, utterly amazed.
“Yes. We mustn’t lose sight of him this time. He can tell us something if he likes,” and without further word he dashed away after the man who had hurried to catch his train, leaving me standing alone in amazement.
That man who had brushed past I had instantly recognised as none other than Henry Blain, who for so many weeks was supposed to have been in Paris.
This fresh development was certainly both startling and mysterious.