“I’m not timid,” he protested. “Only I foresee danger—great danger.”
“So do I—if you don’t act promptly. Get her away from Bournemouth. Go anywhere else you like.”
They were speaking of Asta! I strained my ears, but her further words were inaudible.
In a moment, however, I became conscious of a slight stealthy movement in the bushes near where I was standing, and turned my head quickly.
The next second I realised that only a few yards distant from me the dark figure of a man had come up through the undergrowth, but so carefully that he had made no noise.
He stood ten yards away, peering out at the pair, but all unconscious of my presence there. He was watching intently, and by his silhouette in the darkness I recognised the bearded face of none other than the great agent of the Paris Sûreté, Victor Tramu!