"In London?"
I nodded in the affirmative, while the shrewd little man who was questioning me sat twiddling a pen with his thin fingers.
"And she told you of Marie Bracq? In what circumstances?"
"Well," I said. "It is a long story. Before I tell you, I would like to ask you one question, m'sieur. Have you received from Scotland Yard the description of a man named Digby Kemsley—Sir Digby Kemsley—who is wanted for murder?"
The dry little official with the parchment face repeated the name, then consulting a book at his elbow, replied:
"Yes. We have circulated the description and photograph. It is believed by your police that his real name is Cane."
"He has been in Brussels during the past few days to my own certain knowledge," I said.
"In Brussels," echoed the man seated in the writing chair. "Where?"
"Here, in your city. And I expect he is here now."
"And you know him?" asked the Chef du Sureté, his eyes betraying slight excitement.