“This is a strange story of yours, Duncan,” remarked the millionaire a few moments later, his eyes fixed upon the seated man—“so strange that I should not believe it, but for one thing.”
“An’ what’s that?”
“Other information in my possession goes to prove that your surmise is actually correct, and that your apprehension has foundation. I know that Adam is in London. I’ve seen him!”
“An’ he’s seen you—eh?” cried Macgregor, starting up in alarm.
“Yes, he’s seen me.”
“Did he speak to ye?”
“No. He watched me through the window from yonder pavement outside.”
A silence fell in that warm room where the blinds were still down to exclude the sun, a silence unbroken save by the buzzing of the flies and the low, solemn ticking of the clock.
At last the Scot spoke.
“He means mischief. Depend on it.”