“By the way,” he echoed suddenly, “do you know any other language besides English?”
“I know French fairly well,” I replied, “and a smattering of Italian.”
“Nothing else? German, for instance?”
I replied in the negative.
He rose, and relit his pipe with a spill. Then he chatted for some minutes with Joseph, all the time, it seemed, reflecting upon what he should say to me. At last, reseating himself in his old-fashioned chair, he again looked me straight in the face and said:
“You have given me your promise of silence, Mr Holford. I accept it from one whom I have watched closely for a long time, and whom I know to be a gentleman. Now I am going to tell you something which will probably alarm you. A crime, a very serious crime, has been committed in London during the past forty-eight hours, and I, Kershaw Kirk, am implicated in it—or, rather, suspected of it!”
I sat staring at the man before me, too surprised to reply. He had always been an enigma, and the mystery about him was increasing.
“Tell me more,” I urged at last, looking into the face of the suspected criminal. “Who is the victim?”
“At present I am keeping the affair a strict secret,” he said. “There are reasons, very potent reasons, why the public should not know of the tragedy. Nowadays publicity is the curse of life. At last the Home Office have recognised this. I told you that I am a holder of secrets. Well, besides myself, not more than three persons are aware of the astounding affair.”
“And you are suspected as the assassin?” I remarked.