“It was here that the vanity of the little thief told me what I wanted to know. He drew from his pocket, with a nonchalant air—a sovereign. ‘This is all that I have got,’ he drawled. I found some coppers—I had to think quickly. He had told the police something, something worth paying for—what was it? It could not have been a description of ourselves, for if he had recognized us then, he would have known me when I struck the match and when I stood there, as I did, in the full glare of the light of the coffee-stall. And then a cold fear came to me. Perhaps he had recognized me, and with a thief’s cunning was holding me in conversation until he could get assistance to take me.”
Poiccart paused for a moment, and drew a small phial from his pocket; this he placed carefully on the table.
“He was as near to death then as ever he has been in his life,” he said quietly; “but somehow the suspicion wore away. In our walk we had passed three policemen—there was an opportunity if he had wanted it.
“He drank his coffee and said, ‘I must be going home.’
“ ‘Indeed!’ I said. ‘I suppose I really ought to go home too—I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.’ He leered at me. ‘So have I,’ he said with a grin, ‘but whether I can do it or not I don’t know.’
“We had left the coffee-stall, and now stopped beneath a lamp that stood at the corner of the street. I knew that I had only a few seconds to secure the information I wanted—so I played boldly and led directly to the subject. ‘What of these Four Just Men?’ I asked, just as he was about to slouch away. He turned back instantly. ‘What about them?’ he asked, quickly. I led him on from that by gentle stages to the identity of the Four. He was eager to talk about them, anxious to know what I thought, but most concerned of all about the reward. He was engrossed in the subject, and then suddenly he leaned forward, and, tapping me on the chest with a grimy forefinger, he commenced to state a hypothetical case.”
Poiccart stopped to laugh—his laugh ended in a sleepy yawn.
“You know the sort of questions,” said he, “and you know how very naive the illiterate are when they are seeking to disguise their identities by elaborate hypotheses. Well, this is the story. He—Marks is his name—thinks he may be able to recognize one of us by some extraordinary trick of memory. To enable him to do this, he has been granted freedom—tomorrow he would search London, he said.”
“A full day’s work,” laughed Manfred.
“Indeed,” agreed Poiccart soberly, “but hear the sequel. We parted, and I walked westward perfectly satisfied of our security. I made for Covent Garden Market, because that is one of the places in London where a man may be seen at four o’clock in the morning without exciting suspicion.
“I had strolled through the market, idly watching the busy scene, when, for some cause that I cannot explain, I turned suddenly on my heel and came face to face with Marks! He grinned sheepishly, and recognized me with a nod of his head.
“He did not wait for me to ask him his business, but started in to explain his presence.
“I accepted his explanation easily, and for the second time that night invited him to coffee. He hesitated at first, then accepted. When the coffee was brought, he pulled it to him as far from my reach as possible, and then I knew that Mr. Marks had placed me at fault, that I had underrated his intelligence, that all the time he had been unburdening himself he had recognized me. He had put me off my guard.”
“But why—?” began Manfred.
“That is what I thought,” the other answered. “Why did he not have me arrested?” He turned to Leon, who had been a silent listener. “Tell us, Leon, why?”
“The explanation is simple,” said Gonsalez quietly; “why did not Thery betray us?—cupidity, the second most potent force of civilization. He has some doubt of the reward. He may fear the honesty of the police—most criminals do so; he may want witnesses.” Leon walked to the wall, where his coat hung. He buttoned it thoughtfully, ran his hand over his smooth chin, then pocketed the little phial that stood on the table.
“You have slipped him, I suppose?” he asked.
Poiccart nodded.
“He lives—?”
“At 700, Red Cross Street, in the Borough—it is a common lodging-house.”
Leon took a pencil from the table and rapidly sketched a head upon the edge of a newspaper.
“Like this?” he asked.
Poiccart examined the portrait.
“Yes,” he said in surprise; “have you seen him?”
“No,” said Leon carelessly, “but such a man would have such a head.”
He paused on the threshold.
“I think it is necessary.” There was a question in his assertion. It was addressed rather to Manfred, who stood with his folded arms and knit brow staring at the floor.
For answer Manfred extended his clenched fist.
Leon saw the down-turned thumb, and left the room.
Billy Marks was in a quandary. By the most innocent device in the world his prey had managed to slip through his fingers. When Poiccart, stopping at the polished doors of the best hotel in London, whither they had strolled, casually remarked that he would not be a moment and disappeared into the hotel, Billy was nonplussed. This was a contingency for which he was not prepared. He had followed the suspect from Blackfriars; he was almost sure that this was the
