"Come out of that, you beggar!" he cried; and, stooping down, he gripped the boot, wondering whether he was to be rewarded with a haul or whether he would have to laugh at himself for grabbing someone’s discarded footgear. But the first touch told him that here was no empty boot, and, his fingers closing on it like a vise, he put forth all his strength and dragged its wearer, snarling and spluttering, out on to the open floor. There was no sign of a pistol, but as a measure of precaution Beaumanoir pulled out his own Smith and Wesson. "Get up and sit in that corner," he said sternly, eyeing the puny form of the invader with curiosity. Open violence at any rate was not to be apprehended from the stunted little figure of a man who coweringly obeyed his order. But as his captive turned round and showed his sullen face the Duke knew that this was no mere impecunious vagabond, sneaking a cheap railway journey. His fellow passenger was part and parcel of the peril that menaced him—had, in fact, been a fellow-passenger of his before. For the wizened, mean-looking face was the face of the spy Marker, who had been pointed out to him by Leonie on board the _St. Paul_, and who had afterwards shadowed him to the Hotel Cecil on landing. "So we meet again, Mr. Marker," said the Duke with pleasant irony. "I should have thought that your friend Mr. Ziegler could have provided you with a railway fare rather than let you travel like a broken racing sharp—under the seat." The fellow blinked his ferret eyes viciously, but began a futile attempt at prevarication. "My name, I guess, ain’t Marker, and I never heard of anyone called Ziegler," he whined. "Very possibly your name may not be Marker, though you booked under it on the _St. Paul_; but you are undoubtedly acquainted with the old rascal at the Cecil who calls himself Ziegler," Beaumanoir retorted. "You seem to know a powerful sight more about me than I know myself," was the sullen reply. Beaumanoir made a long scrutiny of the weak but cunning countenance of the spy, and he came to the conclusion that this was one of the underlings of the combination, to be trusted only with minor tasks in the great game. His presence there under the seat of the compartment was the more unaccountable, since he was not the sort of creature with either nerve or physique to murder anything stronger than a fly. "Look here, my good chap," said Beaumanoir with tolerant contempt, after, as he thought, gauging Mr. Marker’s caliber. "You’ve got a bit out of your depth with the people you’re trying to swim with. Why not chuck Ziegler and Co. and come over to me? I’ll make it worth your while." But the only response was a dull shake of the insignificant head and the sulky rejoinder: "I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mister. I’ll chuck anybody you like and come over to you with pleasure if you will stand the price of a ticket to St. Albans."