into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him so as to be in the dark. The window commanded a view of the street, and the blind had not been drawn. Looking down, he saw a man sauntering on the opposite pavement, who presently coming under the rays of a streetlamp was revealed as Marker. Forsyth waited until the spy turned and slowly retraced his steps, and then went back into the sitting-room.
“You have convinced me that there is something in all this,” he said. “That fellow is mouching about outside.”
“I’ll go. I can’t subject you to this sort of thing,” said Beaumanoir, reaching for the new hat which he had purchased after his “accident.”
But Forsyth pushed him back into his chair.
“A duke isn’t necessarily a fool,” he said, roughly. “What you want most is a good sleep, and you shall have it—here in these rooms. Mr. Marker can’t know that you are here, or he wouldn’t have come to the door with that bogus yarn. Also, he is evidently not satisfied that you are not here, or he would have gone away. It remains to throw dust in his
[82]
