“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”