“Ah! it is what monsieur has not done.”
“Pray explain.”
“Pardon. I cannot explain. Why not ask mademoiselle? She knows everything.”
“Everything!” I echoed. “Then why does she not tell me?”
“She fears—most probably.”
Could it be that this strange foreigner was purposely misleading me? I gazed upon his stout, well-dressed figure, and the well-brushed silk hat which he wore with such jaunty air.
In Pall Mall a string of taxi-cabs was passing westward, conveying homeward-bound theatre folk, while across at the brightly-lit entrance of the Carlton, cabs and taxis were drawing up and depositing well-dressed people about to sup.
At the corner of the Athenæum Club we halted again, for I wanted to rid myself of him. I had acted foolishly in addressing him in the first instance. For aught I knew, he might be an accomplice of those absconding assassins of Porchester Terrace.
As we stood there, he had the audacity to produce his cigarette-case and offer me one. But I resentfully declined it.