“Really, dear,” I said, smiling, “you make me feel quite creepy. Don’t allow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of something else.”
“But I can’t,” she declared. “That’s just it. I only wish I could rid myself of this horrible feeling of insecurity.”
“We are perfectly secure,” I assured her. “My enemies are now aware that I’m quite wide awake.” And in a few brief sentences I explained my curious meeting with the Frenchman Delanne.
The instant I described him—his stout body, his grey pointed beard, his gold pince-nez, his amethyst ring—she sat staring at me, white to the lips.
“Why,” she gasped, “I know! The description is exact. And—and you say he saw my father in Manchester! He actually rode away in the same cab as Reckitt! Impossible! You must have dreamt it all, Owen.”
“No, dearest,” I said quite calmly. “It all occurred just as I have repeated it to you.”
“And he really entered the taxi with Reckitt? He said, too, that he knew my father—eh?”
“He did.”
She held her breath. Her eyes were staring straight before her, her breath came and went quickly, and she gripped the wooden post to steady herself, for she swayed forward suddenly, and I stretched out my hand, fearing lest she should fall.