“No,” replied Hugh, speaking in French,
“I have some business here—that is
all.” He was highly suspicious of all strangers,
and the more so of anyone who endeavoured to get into
conversation with him.
“You know Marseilles—of course?”
asked the stranger, sharply scrutinizing him.
“I have been here several times before.
I find the city always gay and bright.”
“Not so bright as before the war,” declared
the little man, smoking at his ease. “There
have been many changes lately.”
Hugh Henfrey could not make the fellow out. Yet
many times before he had been addressed by strangers
who seemed to question him out of curiosity, and for
no apparent reason. This man was one of them,
no doubt.
The man, who had accompanied the woman whom the stranger
had followed out, rose, exchanged a significant glance
with the little man, and walked out. That the
three were in accord seemed quite apparent, though
Hugh was still unsuspicious.
He chatted merrily with the stranger for nearly half
an hour, and then rose and left the cafe. When
quite close to the hotel the stranger overtook him,
and halting, asked in a low voice, in very good English:
“I believe you are Mr. Henfrey—are
you not?”
“Why do you ask that?” inquired Hugh,
much surprised. “My name is Jordan—William
Jordan.”
“Yes,” laughed the man. “That
is, I know, the name you have given at the hotel.
But your real name is Henfrey.”
Hugh started. The stranger, noticing his alarm,
hastened to reassure him.
FRIEND OR ENEMY?
“You need not worry,” said the stranger
to Hugh. “I am not your enemy, but a friend.
I warn you that Marseilles is unsafe for you.
Get away as soon as possible. The Spanish police
have learnt that you have come here,” he went
on as he strolled at his side.
Hugh was amazed.
“How did you know my identity?” he asked
eagerly.
“I was instructed to watch for your arrival—and
to warn you.”
“Who instructed you?”
“A friend of yours—and mine—The
Sparrow.”
“Has he been here?”
“No. He spoke to me on the telephone from
Paris.”
“What were his instructions?”
“That you were to go at once—to-night—by
car to the Hotel de Paris, at Cette. A car and
driver awaits you at the Garage Beauvau, in the Rue
Beauvau. I have arranged everything at The Sparrow’s
orders. You are one of Us, I understand,”
and the man laughed lightly.
“But my bag?” exclaimed Hugh.
“Go to the hotel, pay your bill, and take your
bag to the station cloak-room. Then go and get
the car, pick up your bag, and get out on the road
to Cette as soon as ever you can. Your driver
will ask no questions, and will remain silent.
He has his orders from The Sparrow.”
“Does The Sparrow ever come to Marseilles?”
Hugh asked.
