There were dark lines beneath the keen gray eyes, which, Rob Brierly had declared, "compelled a man's trust," and the smooth, shaven cheek was almost hectic, symptoms which, in Ferrars, denoted, among other things, loss of sleep.
There was a moment of silence, after the men had exchanged greetings, and it seemed, almost, that each was covertly studying the other, and then Brierly tossed down his straw hat, and pulling a chair directly in front of that in which the detective lounged, said, abruptly:
"I shouldn't like to quarrel with you, Ferrars, but I've something on my mind, and I'm here to have it out with you."
"Oh! Then I am in it?" the detective spoke nonchalantly, carelessly almost, and as the other seemed hesitating for a word, he added: "Give us the first round, old man. I'm apprehensive."
"H—m! You look it. Ferrars, do you know that for weeks, ever since my return from Glenville, in fact, I have been under constant surveillance?"
"Constant sur—. Excuse me, it's not polite to repeat, Brierly, but what do you mean?"
"What I say. It's plain enough, somebody is watching me, following me day and night."
"Pshaw! You don't mean that, man!"
