"Friends!" I echoed, starting forward at his words.
"Yes, sir. The girl was not quite certain, but believes she saw the Belgian doctor and young Mr. Craig walking together over the golf-links one evening. It was her Sunday out and she was strolling that way just at dusk with her sweetheart."
"She is not quite positive, eh?" I asked.
"No, sir, not quite positive. She only thinks it was young Mr. Craig."
"Did Craig or Gregory ever go to that house while our friend has been there?"
"No, sir. She was quite positive on that point."
"What does the doctor do with himself all day?" I asked.
"Sits reading novels, or the French papers, greater part of the day. Sometimes he writes letters, but very seldom. According to the books I noticed in his room, he delights in stories of mystery and crime."
I smiled. Too well I knew the literary tastes of Jules Jeanjean, the man who was fearless, and being so, was eminently dangerous, and who was passing as a Belgian doctor. He, who had once distinguished himself by holding the whole of the forces of the Paris police at arms' length, and defying them—committing crimes under their very noses out of sheer anarchical bravado—was actually living there as a quiet, studious, steady-going man of literary tastes and refinement—Doctor Paul Arendt, of Liège, Belgium.