“My name, I guess, ain’t Marker, and I never heard of anyone called Ziegler,” he whined.
“Very possibly your name may not be Marker, though you booked under it on the St. Paul; but you are undoubtedly acquainted with the old rascal at the Cecil who calls himself Ziegler,” Beaumanoir retorted.
“You seem to know a powerful sight more about me than I know myself,” was the sullen reply.
Beaumanoir made a long scrutiny of the weak but cunning countenance of the spy, and he came to the conclusion that this was one of the underlings of the combination, to be trusted only with minor tasks in the great game. His presence there under the seat of the compartment was the more unaccountable, since he was not the sort of creature with either nerve or physique to murder anything stronger than a fly.
“Look here, my good chap,” said Beaumanoir with tolerant contempt, after, as he thought, gauging Mr. Marker’s caliber. “You’ve got a bit out of your depth with the people you’re trying to swim with. Why not chuck Ziegler and Co. and come over to me? I’ll make it worth your while.”
[169]
