“Catalan. This is Catalonia, you know, and both the race and the language are different from the rest of Spain. They are more go-ahead and enterprising than the people farther south.” “That sounds a bit like Ireland,” French remarked. “I’ve been both in Belfast and in the south, and the same things seems to hold good. Though Dublin is a fine city, and no mistake.” They continued discussing peoples and languages and the northerly concentration of energy to be found in most countries, until the hands of the clock pointed to noon and lunch time. Then French caught what he had been angling for. The stranger asked him to share his table. The Inspector continued to make himself agreeable, and after they had finished invited the other to have coffee and a cigar with him in a deserted corner of the lounge. Then thinking his companion was by this time off his guard, he introduced a new subject after a lull in the conversation. “It’s strange the different businesses people are engaged on,” he remarked ruminatively, as he poured himself out a second cup of coffee. “Now, I wouldn’t mind betting a ten-pound note you wouldn’t guess what I am, and what my business here is.” The other laughed. “I confess I was wondering,” he admitted. “I am afraid I should lose my money. I won’t guess.” “Well, I’ll tell you, though our business is not a thing we speak of as a rule. I am a detective inspector from Scotland Yard.” As he spoke French watched the other’s face. If this were the man of whom he was in search, he could swear he would make him exhibit some emotion. But so far he did not succeed. His new acquaintance merely laughed again. “Then I should have lost. I admit I never thought of that.” French continued to observe, and he went on with more seriousness in his manner. “Yes, and I’m on rather important business, too. Man wanted for murder and robbery in the City. A bad affair enough. He murdered the confidential clerk of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden and rifled the safe and got off with I don’t know how many thousand pounds’ worth of stuff.” At the commencement of French’s reply the stranger had listened with but little more than a conventional interest, but at the mention of a diamond merchant in Hatton Garden he figuratively sat up and began to take notice. “Hatton Garden?” he repeated. “That’s an extraordinary coincidence. Why, I belong to a firm of diamond merchants in Hatton Garden. I know them all. Who was the man?” Inspector French was puzzled. Either Vanderkemp—for there could no longer be any doubt of his identity—was innocent, or he was an almost incredibly good actor. Anxious to observe the man further, he fenced a little in his reply. “Is it possible you haven’t heard?” he asked in apparent surprise. “How long is it since you have heard from home?” “Haven’t had a line of any kind since I left, and that’s nearly three weeks ago; on the night of the 25th of last month to be exact.”