“Be extremely careful.  You have enemies, so have I. They are the same as those who denounced the signorino to the police—­as they will no doubt, before long, denounce you!” said the old man.

“Bah!  You always were a pessimist, Giulio,” Benton laughed.  “I do not fear any enemies—­I assure you.  The Sparrow takes good care that we are prevented from falling into any traps the police may set,” he added after a moment’s pause.

The old waiter shook his head dubiously.

“One day there may be a slip—­and it will cost you all very dearly,” he said.

“You are in a bad mood, Giulio—­like all those who exist by being honest,” Benton laughed, though he was extremely annoyed at his failure to learn anything from the old fellow.

Was it possible that the suspicions which both Molly and he had entertained were true—­namely, that the old man had attempted to kill his mistress?  After all, the hue-and-cry had been raised by the police merely because Hugh Henfrey had fled and successfully escaped.

Benton, after grumbling because the old man would make no statement, and again hinting at the fact that he might be the culprit, left with very ill grace, his long journey from London having been in vain.

If Henfrey was to be free to marry Louise, then his innocence must first be proved.  Charles Benton had for many weeks realized that his chance of securing old Mr. Henfrey’s great fortune was slowly slipping from him.  Once Hugh had married Louise and settled the money upon her, then the rest would be easy.  He had many times discussed it with Molly, and they were both agreed upon a vile, despicable plot which would result in the young man’s sudden end and the diversion of his father’s fortune.

The whole plot against old Mr. Henfrey was truly one of the most elaborate and amazing ones ever conceived by criminal minds.

Charles Benton was a little too well known in Nice, hence he took care to leave the place by an early train, and went on to Cannes, where he was a little less known.  As an international crook he had spent several seasons at Nice and Monte Carlo, but had seldom gone to Cannes, as it was too aristocratic and too slow for an escroc like himself.

Arrived at Cannes he put up at the Hotel Beau Site, and that night ate an expensive dinner in the restaurant at the Casino.  Then, next day, he took the train-de-luxe direct for Calais, and went on to London, all unconscious of the sensational events which were then happening.

On arrival in London he found a telegram lying upon his table among some letters.  It was signed “Shaw,” and urged him to meet him “at the usual place” at seven o’clock in the evening.  “I know you are away, but I’ll look in each night at seven,” it concluded.

It was just six o’clock, therefore Benton washed and changed, and just before seven o’clock entered a little cafe off Wardour Street, patronized mostly by foreigners.  At one of the tables, sitting alone, was a wiry-looking, middle-aged man—­Mr. Howell, The Sparrow’s friend.