“Ah!” he laughed, stroking his greyish beard again, “I fear, Monsieur Biddulph, that you are displeased with me. I have annoyed you by not satisfying your natural curiosity. But were I to do so, it would be against my own interests. Hence my silence. Am I not perfectly honest with you?”
That speech of his corroborated all my suspicions. His motive in following me, whatever it could be, was a sinister one. He had admitted knowledge of Harriman, the man found guilty and sentenced for the murder of the young English member of Parliament, Ronald Burke. His intimate acquaintance with Harriman’s past and with his undesirable friends showed that he must have been an associate of that daring and dangerous gang.
I was a diligent reader of the English papers, but had never seen any mention of the great association of expert criminals. His assertion that the Paris Matin had published all the details was, in all probability, untrue. I instinctively mistrusted him, because he had kept such a watchful eye upon me ever since I had sat with Sylvia’s father in the lounge of that big hotel in Manchester.
“I don’t think you are honest with me, Monsieur Delanne,” I said stiffly. “Therefore I refuse to believe you further.”
“As you wish,” laughed my companion. “You will believe me, however, ere long—when you have proof. Depend upon it.”
And he glanced at his watch, closing it quickly with a snap.
“You see——” he began, but as he uttered the words a taxi, coming from the direction of Charing Cross, suddenly pulled up at the kerb where we were standing—so suddenly that, for a moment, I did not notice that it had come to a standstill.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the cab, “I quite forgot! I have an appointment. I will wish you bon soir, Monsieur Biddulph. We may meet again—perhaps.” And he raised his hat in farewell.
As he turned towards the taxi to enter it, I realized that some one was inside—that the person in the cab had met the strange foreigner by appointment at that corner!