He hurried after
the little party, who were apparently on their way to the cafe.
"Andrew," he said, grasping him by the arm, "I must speak with you
alone--at once."
"I see no object in any further discussion between us," Andrew said
calmly.
"Don't be a fool!" Duncombe answered. "That woman you are with is a spy.
If you have anything to do with her you are injuring Phyllis Poynton.
She is not here to give you information. She is at work for her own
ends."
"You are becoming more communicative, my friend," Andrew said, with
something which was almost a sneer. "You did not talk so freely a few
minutes back. It seems as though we were on the eve of a discovery."
"You are on the brink of making an idiot of yourself," Duncombe answered
quickly. "You were mad to bring that blundering English detective over
here. What the French police cannot or do not choose to discover, do you
suppose that they would allow an Englishman to find out--a stranger to
Paris, and with an accent like that? If I cannot keep you from folly by
any other means I must break my word to others. Come back into the
smoking-room with me, and I will tell you why you are mad to have
anything to do with that woman.
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