In accordance with the request, I went to the café at the hour appointed. It was crowded, but I soon discovered him, smartly dressed, and seated at a table in the corner. After we had finished our beer I followed him out into the park, where, halting suddenly, he said—
“Ewart, you’ve placed yourself in a pretty fine predicament!”
“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.
“Well, I saw you yesterday afternoon driving down the Prager-strasse with the very gentleman to whom you ought to give the widest berth.”
“You mean Gibbs?”
“I mean that cunning old fox, Inspector Dyer, of Scotland Yard.”
“What!” I gasped. “Dyer—is that the famous Dyer?”
“He is. I once, to my cost, had occasion to meet him, and it’s hardly likely that I’d forget his face. I saw you coming along with him, and you could have knocked me down with a feather.”
“But I—well, I really can’t believe that he’s a detective,” I declared, utterly incredulous.
“Believe it, or disbelieve it—it’s a fact, I tell you. You’ve been given away somehow, and Dyer has now just got you in his palm.”