“Because I no longer had courage to endure; because I was more afraid to stay than to go—afraid that my own soul would be forfeit. And then, last night, he ordered me to go to your room and search it for evidence that you were the Lone Wolf. It was the first time he’d ever asked anything like that of me. I was afraid, and though I obeyed, I was glad when you interrupted—glad even though I had to lie the way I did. … And all that worked on me, after I’d gone back to my room, until I felt I could stand it no longer; and after a long time, when the house seemed all still, I got up, dressed quietly and … That is how I came to meet you—quite by accident.”
“But you seemed so frightened at first when you saw me—”
“I was,” she confessed simply; “I thought you were Mr. Greggs.”
“Greggs?”
“Mr. Bannon’s private secretary—his right-hand man. He’s about your height and has a suit like the one you wear, and in that poor light—at the distance I didn’t notice you were clean-shaven—Greggs wears a moustache—”
“Then it was Greggs murdered Roddy and tried to drug me! … By George, I’d like to know whether the police got there before Bannon, or somebody else, discovered the substitution. It was a telegram to the police, you know, I sent from the Bourse last night!”
In his excitement Lanyard began to pace the floor rapidly; and now that he was no longer staring at her, the girl lifted her head and watched him closely as he moved to and fro, talking aloud—more to himself than to her.
“I wish I knew! … And what a lucky thing, you did meet me! For if you’d gone on to the Gare du Nord and waited there. … Well, it isn’t likely Bannon didn’t discover your flight before eight o’clock this morning, is it?”
“I’m afraid not. …”
“And they’ve drawn the deadline for me round every conceivable exit from Paris: Popinot’s Apaches are picketed everywhere. And if Bannon had found out about you in time, it would have needed only a word …”
He paused and shuddered to think what might have ensued had that word been spoken and the girl been found waiting for her train in the Gare du Nord.
“Mercifully, we’ve escaped that. And now, with any sort of luck, Bannon ought to be busy enough, trying to get his precious Mr. Greggs out of the Santé, to give us a chance. And a fighting chance is all I ask.”
“Mr. Lanyard”—the girl bent toward him across the table with a gesture of eager interest—“have you any idea why he—why Mr. Bannon hates you so?”
“But does he? I don’t know!”
“If he doesn’t, why should he plot to cast suspicion of murder on you, and why be so anxious to know whether you were really the Lone Wolf? I saw his eyes light up when De Morbihan mentioned that name, after dinner; and if ever I saw hatred in a man’s face, it was in his as he watched you, when you weren’t looking.”
“As far as I know, I never heard of him before,” Lanyard said carelessly. “I fancy it’s nothing more than the excitement of a manhunt. Now that they’ve found me out, De Morbihan and his crew won’t rest until they’ve got my scalp.”
“But why?”
“Professional jealousy. We’re all crooks, all in the same boat, only I won’t row to their stroke. I’ve always played a lone hand successfully; now they insist on coming into the game and sharing my winnings. And I’ve told them where they could go.”
“And because of that, they’re willing to—”
“There’s nothing they wouldn’t do, Miss Shannon, to bring me to my knees or see me put out of the way, where my operations couldn’t hurt their pocketbooks. Well … all I ask is a fighting chance, and they shall have their way!”
Her brows contracted. “I don’t understand. … You want a fighting chance—to surrender—to give in to their demands?”
“In a way—yes. I want a fighting chance to do what I’d never in the world get them to credit—give it all up and leave them a free field.”
And when still she searched his face with puzzled eyes, he insisted: “I mean it; I want to get away—clear out—chuck the game for good and all!”
A little silence greeted this announcement. Lanyard, at pause near the table, resting a hand on it, bent to the girl’s upturned face a grave but candid regard. And the deeps of her eyes that never swerved from his were troubled strangely in his vision. He could by no means account for the light he seemed to see therein, a light that kindled while he watched like a tiny flame, feeble, fearful, vacillant, then as the moments passed steadied and grew stronger but ever leaped and danced; so that he, lost in the wonder of it and forgetful of himself, thought of it as the ardent face of a happy child dancing in the depths of some brown autumnal woodland. …
“You,” she breathed incredulously—“you mean, you’re going to stop—?”
“I have stopped, Miss Shannon. The Lone Wolf has prowled for the last time. I didn’t know it until I woke up, an hour or so ago, but I’ve turned my last job.”
He remarked her hands were small, in keeping with the slightness of her person, but somehow didn’t seem so—wore a look of strength and capability, befitting hands trained to a nurse’s duties; and saw them each tightfisted but quivering as they rested on the table, as though their mistress struggled to suppress the manifestation of some emotion as powerful as unfathomable to him.
“But why?” she demanded in bewilderment. “But why do you say that? What can have happened to make you—?”
“Not fear of that Pack!” he laughed—“not that, I promise you.”
“Oh, I know!” she said impatiently—“I know that very well. But still I don’t understand. …”
“If it won’t bore you, I’ll try to explain.” He drew up his chair and sat down again, facing
