"Ah, nothing," he laughed. "But--well, I really fear I've aroused your suspicions unduly. Perhaps it is not so very extraordinary, after all, that in these days of rapid communication two men should catch sight of each other in a Manchester hotel, and, later on, meet in a street in London--eh?" "I regard the coincidence as a strange one, monsieur," I replied stiffly, "if it is really an actual coincidence." For aught I knew, the fellow might be a friend of Pennington, or an accomplice of those rascally assassins. Had I not been warned by Shuttleworth, and also by Sylvia herself, of another secret attempt upon my life? I was wary now, and full of suspicion. Instinctively I did not like this mysterious foreigner. The way in which he had first caught sight of my face as I descended the steps of White's, and how he had glided after me down St. James's Street, was not calculated to inspire confidence. He asked permission to walk at my side along the Mall, which I rather reluctantly granted. It seemed that, now I had addressed him, I could not shake him off. Without doubt his intention was to watch, and see where I lived. Therefore, instead of going in the direction of Buckingham Palace, I turned back eastward towards the steps at the foot of the Duke of York's Column. As we strolled in the darkness along the front of Carlton House Terrace he chatted affably with me, then said suddenly-- "Do you know, Monsieur Biddulph, we met once before--in rather strange circumstances. You did not, however, see me. It was in Paris, some little time ago. You were staying at the Grand Hotel, and became acquainted with a certain American named Harriman." "Harriman!" I echoed, with a start, for that man's name brought back to me an episode I would fain forget. The fact is, I had trusted him, and I had believed him to be an honest man engaged in big financial transactions, until I discovered the truth. My friendship with him cost me nearly one thousand eight hundred pounds. "Harriman was very smart, was he not?" laughed my friend, with a touch of sarcasm. Could it be, I wondered, that this Frenchman was a friend of the shrewd and unscrupulous New Yorker? "Yes," I replied rather faintly. "Sharp--until found out," went on the stranger, speaking in French. "His real name is Bell, and he----" "Yes, I know; he was arrested for fraud in my presence as he came down the staircase in the hotel," I interrupted. "He was arrested upon a much more serious charge," exclaimed the stranger. "He was certainly wanted in Berlin and Hanover for frauds in connection with an invention, but the most serious charge against him was one of murder." "Murder!" I gasped. "I never knew that!" "Yes--the murder of a young English statesman named Ronald Burke at a villa near Nice. Surely you read reports of the trial?" I confessed that I had not done so.