“Do you know who he really is?” he asked, with a strange intensity of tone that surprised me.
“I’ve known him as Markwick, but if he has another name I am utterly unaware of it. To me he has always appeared a rather shady individual whose past is veiled by obscurity.”
“And to me also. For weeks I’ve been trying to discover who the fellow really is, but no one knows. He has been living at the Victoria recently, and before that he made the Savoy his head-quarters. He appears to have plenty of money, but according to the information I have gathered, his movements are most erratic, and their object a profound mystery. He met my wife at some reception or another and called on her the other day.” Then, bending toward me he asked: “Do you think—I mean—well, would you suspect him of being a detective?”
I regarded him keenly. His question was a strange one.
“No,” I replied. “From my observations I feel perfectly confident that he is not a detective. He is more likely an adventurer.”
“Are you absolutely sure he is not connected with the police?”
“I feel certain he’s not,” I answered. “From one fact that came under my notice I have been led to the conclusion that he is an adventurer of the first water.”
“A criminal?”
“No, I don’t go quite so far as that. All I know is that he has an utter contempt for the law.”
“Then he has, to your knowledge, committed some offence?” Fyneshade cried quickly, with undisguised satisfaction.