"He was supposed to be. You are not the first rogue who has feigned to be dead."
"But, in truth, he's dead. They sat upon his corpse. They brought it in that he'd been guilty of felo-de-se. And, since no one came to claim his body, they buried him at Portland, among his brother rogues; and there he lies, within hearing of the sea. Permit me to show you the place where the rope was about his neck, and where he thrust the knife into his breast."
Tearing his waistcoat open he advanced towards me, as if to show me the hall-marks of the suicide. I waved him back again.
"Do not think to fool me with such tricks!"
He paused, and eyed me—always with his curious smile.
"You are a shrewd man. I perceived it when I saw you at Scotland Yard."
"You saw me at Scotland Yard!"
"Where else? I was with you in the Museum, when you were seeing all the sights. And when the constable took out the cards—my cards!—I perceived that you were a man after my own heart. So when the superstitious fellow—you remember, he was a little superstitious, was he not?—put them back into their place, I took the liberty to borrow them—why not? They were my own, the works of my own hand!—and I went with you down the stairs."
"You went with me down the stairs!"
"And along the Strand, to Simpson's. I sat beside you as you lunched—you did not see me. It was not strange. Permit me but one word—you are
