“I can’t quite make you out, Mr. Peters,” said the young man.  “Why should you evince such a paternal interest in me?”

The Sparrow did not at once reply.  A strange expression played about his lips.

“Have I not already answered that question twice?” he asked.  “Rest assured, Mr. Henfrey, that I have your interests very much at heart.”

“You have some reason for that, I’m sure.”

“Well—­yes, I have a reason—­a reason which is my own affair.”  And he rose to wish his visitor “good-night.”

“I’ll not forget to let Miss Ranscomb know that you will be at Farnham.  She will, no doubt, manage to get her mother’s car for the afternoon,” he said.  “Good-night!” and with his gloved fingers he took the young man’s outstretched hand.

The instant he heard the front door close he crossed to the telephone, and asking for a number, told the person who answered it to come round and see him without a moment’s delay.

Thus, while Hugh Henfrey was seated beside Mead as Mrs. Bond’s car went swiftly towards Kensington, a thin, rather wiry-looking man of middle age entered The Sparrow’s room.

The latter sprang to his feet quickly at sight of his visitor.

“Ah!  Howell!  I’m glad you’ve come.  Benton and Molly Maxwell are deceiving us.  They mean mischief!”

The man he addressed as Howell looked aghast.

“Mischief?” he echoed.  “In what way?”

“I’ve not yet arrived at a full conclusion.  But we must be on the alert and ready to act whenever the time is ripe.  You know what they did over that little affair in Marseilles not so very long ago?  They’ll repeat, if we’re not very careful.  That girl of Benton’s they are using as a decoy—­and she’s a dangerous one.”

“For whom?”

“For old Henfrey’s son.”

The Sparrow’s visitor gave vent to a low whistle.

“They intend to get old Henfrey’s money?”

“Yes—­and they will if we are not very wary,” declared the little, bristly-haired old gentleman known as The Sparrow.  “The boy has been entirely entrapped.  They made one faux pas, and it is upon that we may—­if we are careful—­get the better of them.  I don’t like the situation at all.  They have a distinctly evil design against the boy.”

“Benton and Molly are a combination pretty hard to beat,” remarked Mr. Howell.  “But I thought they were friends of ours.”

“True.  They were.  But after the little affair in Marseilles I don’t trust them,” replied The Sparrow.  “When anyone makes a slip, either by design or sheer carelessness, or perhaps by reason of inordinate avarice, then I always have to safeguard myself.  I suspect—­and my suspicion usually proves correct.”

His midnight visitor drew a long breath.

“What we all say of you is that The Sparrow is gifted with an extra sense,” he said.

The little old man with the gloved hand smiled contentedly.