"Yes--I know. But things have changed, Mr. Narkom. You may disguise yourself as cleverly as you please, but you can't disguise the red limousine. It is known and it will be followed; so, until you can get another of a totally different colour and appearance I'll ring you up each morning at the Yard and we can make our appointments over your private wire. For the present we must take no great risks. In the days that lie behind, dear friend, I had no 'tracker' to guard against but Margot, no enemies but her paltry crew to reckon with and to outwit. In these, I have many. They have brains, these new foes; they are rich, they are desperate, they are powerful; and behind them is the implacable hate and the malignant hand of----No matter! You wouldn't understand."
"I can make a devilish good guess, then," rapped in Narkom, a trifle testily, his vanity a little hurt by that final suggestion, and his mind harking back to the brief enlightening conversation between Margot and Count Waldemar that night on the spray-swept deck of the Channel packet. "Behind them is 'the implacable hate and the malignant hand' of the King of Mauravania!"
"What utter rubbish!" Cleek's jeering laughter fairly stung, it was so full of pitying derision. "My friend, have you taken to reading penny novelettes of late? A thief-taker and a monarch! An ex-criminal and a king! I should have given you credit for more common sense."
"It was the King of Mauravania's equerry who directed that attempt to kill you by blowing up the house in Clarges Street."
"Very possibly. But that does not incriminate his royal master. Count Waldemar is not only equerry to King Ulric of Mauravania, but is also nephew to its ex-Prime Minister--the gentleman who is doing fifteen years' energetic labour for the British Government as a result of that attempt to trap me with his witless 'Silver Snare.'"
"Oh!" said Narkom, considerably crestfallen; then grasped at yet another straw with sudden, breathless eagerness. "But even then the head of the Mauravanian Government must have had some reason for wishing to 'wipe you out,'" he added, earnestly. "There could be no question of avenging an uncle's overthrow at that time. Cleek!"--his voice running thin and eager, his hand shutting suddenly upon his famous ally's arm--"Cleek, trust me! Won't you? Can't you? As God hears me, old chap, I'll respect it. Who are you? What are you, man?"