“No. There’s no fear, my dear Teddy,” laughed the girl. “If anything were wrong we should know. Bad news travels fast.”
“I don’t like George Jordon leaving suddenly like that—without a word. The other business in Stockholm is a pretty big one.”
“Why did you fix Saturday?”
“I fixed any Saturday—the Saturday when we may find it most convenient to all parties concerned,” he said with a mysterious grin.
“I hope neither Falconer nor the girl suspects,” the girl said apprehensively.
“What can they suspect?” asked the man. “You have only to carry out your part of the contract, and the whole thing is easy—big money awaits both of us,” he whispered across the table.
“Yes,” the girl replied, her voice lost in the strains of the orchestra. She looked across the spacious restaurant dreamily. “Yes,” she repeated, “but somehow I don’t like this business at all. George may have smelt a rat and bolted.”
“He may have done, but, recollect, he would not have disappeared without first sending me warning. Remember all that it means to him—and to us both,” exclaimed the man who was known in the haunts about Piccadilly Circus as Teddy Tressider, or Everard, as was his real name.
“On any Saturday,” repeated the pretty young French girl, as she sipped her wine and then leaned her bare elbows upon the table, looking straight at the man before her. “George has arranged to be ready to get across to Sweden, on any Saturday—eh?”
“Exactly. And look here, Gabrielle!” exclaimed the keen-eyed man, whose attitude suddenly altered to one of menace, “I don’t want you at the last moment to become chicken-hearted or—or, by Heaven! if there’s a failure, you’ll pay dearly for it.”