“To my mind, Lewin, I foresee a danger,” said the stout man, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate as he rose and stood before his friend.
“How?”
“Well—last night I happened to be at the theatre, and in the stalls in front of me sat Trustram with young Sainsbury, the fellow whom we dismissed from the Ochrida office.”
“Sainsbury!” gasped the other. “Is he on friendly terms with Trustram, do you think?”
“I don’t think, my dear fellow—I am certain,” was the reply. “He had his girl with him, and all three were laughing and chatting merrily together.”
“His girl? Let me see, we had him watched a few days ago, didn’t we? That’s a girl living up at Hampstead—daughter of a Birmingham tool-manufacturer, Elise Shearman, isn’t she?” remarked Rodwell slowly, his eyebrows narrowing as he spoke.
“I believe that was the name. Olsen watched and reported, didn’t he?” asked the Baronet.
“Yes. I must see him. That young fellow is dangerous to us, Boyle—distinctly dangerous! He knows something, remember, and he would have told his friend Jerrold—if the latter had not conveniently died just before his visit to Wimpole Street.”
“Yes. That was indeed a lucky incident—eh?”
“And now he is friendly with Charles Trustram. How did they meet, I wonder?”