I was sorely disappointed. I knew that he was a spy and was in England for some fixed purpose. But what it was I could not discover.
"And," he added, as though it were an afterthought, "if any one should by chance inquire about Mr. Van Nierop—whether you know him, or if he has been here—remember that you know nothing—nothing. You understand?"
"Very well, sir," was my response.
Five minutes later, refusing to allow me to accompany him to the station, he drove away into Piccadilly with his luggage upon a hansom, and thus was I left alone for an indefinite period.
That evening I went round to Bruton Street, where I saw Ray, and described what had occurred.
He sat staring into the fire in silence for some time.
"Well," he answered at last, "if what I surmise be true, Jack, the Baron ought to be back here in about a week. Continue to keep both eyes and ears open. There's a deep game being played, I am certain. He's with Hartmann very often. Recollect what I told you about the clever manner in which the Baron conducted the affair at Toulon. He would have been entirely successful hadn't a woman given Ullmo away. See me as little as you can. You never know who may be watching you during the Baron's absence."
On the next evening I went out for a stroll towards Piccadilly Circus and accidentally met a man I knew, a German named Karl Stieber, a man of about thirty, who was valet to a young gentleman who lived in the flat beneath us.
Together we descended to that noisy café beneath the Hôtel de l'Europe in Leicester Square, where we met four other friends of Karl's, servants like himself.
As we sat together, he told me that his brother was head-waiter at a little French restaurant in Dean Street, Soho, called "La Belle Niçoise," a place where one could obtain real Provençal dishes. Then, I on my part, told him of my own position and my travels with the Baron.