“There’s no hurry about it,” I said.  “It’s rather pleasant to have something to look forward to.”

“But you have seen him?”

I nodded.  “I had the pleasure of walking behind him for a couple of miles yesterday.  He looks a little worried, but quite well otherwise.”

She laughed softly.  “Ah, you can afford to let him wait.  And the girl, Joyce?  Have you seen her?”

She asked the question quite dispassionately, and yet in some curious way I had a sudden vague feeling of menace and danger.  Anyhow, I lied as readily and instinctively as Ananias.

“No,” I said.  “George is the only part of my past that interests me now.”

I thought I saw the faintest possible expression of satisfaction flicker across her face, but if so it was gone immediately.

“Sonia,” I said, “there is a question I want to ask you.  Am I developing nerves, or have I really been watched and followed since I came to London?”

She looked at me steadily.  “What makes you think so?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, “it may be only my imagination, but I have an idea that a gentleman with a scar on his face has been taking a rather affectionate interest in my movements.”

For a moment she hesitated; then with a rather scornful little laugh she shrugged her shoulders.  “I told them it was unnecessary!” she said.

I crushed down the exclamation that nearly rose to my lips.  So the man with the scar was one of McMurtrie’s emissaries, after all, and his dealings with Mr. Bruce Latimer most certainly did concern me.  The feeling that I was entangled in some unknown network of evil and mystery came back to me with redoubled force.

“I hope the report was satisfactory,” I said lightly.

Sonia nodded.  “They only wanted to make certain that you had gone to Edith Terrace.  I don’t think you were followed after the first night.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think I was.”  Precisely how much the boot had been on the opposite foot it seemed unnecessary to add.

Sonia walked to the table and again opened her bag.  “I mustn’t stay any longer—­now,” she said.  “I have to meet the car at six o’clock.  Here are the keys.”  She took them out and came across to where I was standing.

“Good-bye, Sonia,” I said, taking her hands in mine.

“No, no,” she whispered; “don’t say that:  I hate the word.  Listen, Neil.  I am coming to you again, down there, when we shall be alone—­you and I together.  I don’t know when it will be, but soon—­ah, just as soon as I can.  I can’t help you, not in the way I mean to, until you have finished your work, but I will come to you, and—­and....”  Her voice failed, and lowering her head she buried her face in my coat.  I bent down, and in a moment her lips met mine in another long, passionate kiss.  It was hard to see how I could have acted otherwise, but all the same I didn’t feel exactly proud of myself.