Being but a poor French scholar, he had sc.r.a.ped up an acquaintance with Pierre Lenoir, chiefly on account of the latter"s proficiency in the English language.
There is little to be said concerning Markby"s past history, for reasons which will presently be apparent.
What further reason he may have had for cultivating the friendship of the rover, Pierre Lenoir, will probably show itself in due course.
"I have disposed of that last batch of five-franc pieces," said Markby.
"Here are the proceeds."
"Keep it back," exclaimed Lenoir hurriedly.
"What for?"
"It is sheer madness for us to be seen conversing together," replied Lenoir, casting an anxious glance about him from behind his hat, which he held in his hand so as to shield his features, "much less to be seen exchanging money--why, it is suicidal--nothing less."
"Is there any danger, do you think?"
"Do I think? Do I know? Why, this place is literally alive with spies--_mouchards_ as we called them here. Every second man you meet is a _mouchard_."
"Do you mean it?"
"Rather."
"That"s not a pleasant thing to know," said Markby.
"I don"t agree with you there," replied Lenoir. ""Forewarned, forearmed," is a proverb in your language. But now tell me about this friend and countryman of yours."
"He"s no friend of mine," returned Markby. "I know him as a great traveller, and one who has opportunities of placing more false----"
"Hush, imprudent!" interrupted Lenoir. "Call it stock. You know not how many French spies may be pa.s.sing, or how near we may be to danger."
Markby took the hint given him, and continued--
"Well, stock. He can place more--he has probably placed more than any man alive. He travels about _en grand seigneur_--lords it in high places and disposes of the counterf----"
"Stock."
"Stock, in regular loads. But he"s as wary as a fox--nothing can approach him in cunning."
"The very man I want," exclaimed Lenoir. "This fellow could, with my aid, make a fortune for himself and me in less than a year--a large fortune."
"You are very sanguine," said Markby, with a smile.
"I am, but not over sanguine. I speak by the book, for I know well what I am talking of. You must introduce me."
"You are running on wildly," said Markby. "Did I not tell you that he did not know me--that he would not know me if he did? So careful is he that his own brother would fail to draw any thing from him concerning the way in which he gets his living."
"_Dame!_" muttered Lenoir, "he seems a precious difficult fellow to approach."
"Yes, on that subject," responded Markby; "but he"s genial and agreeable enough if you introduce yourself by accident, as it were, and chat upon social topics generally, without the vaguest reference to the subject nearest your heart."
"How shall I ever lead him up to the point?"
"Easily. For instance, talk about art matters. Allude to your gallery of sculpture. Ask him, is he fond of bas reliefs? Tell him of your skill as a medallist."
"Medallist might put him on the scent, if he is so dreadfully wary,"
said Lenoir.
"No fear. He would never dream of such a thing. Medalling being a sort of sister art to what most interests him, he would be sure to bite at the chance. You lead him to your little underground snuggery, and once there all need for his wonderful caution will be at an end."
"I see," said Lenoir, rubbing his hands. "But stay"--and here his face grew a bit serious--"this fellow is faithful?"
"True as steel," responded Markby.
"That"s right," said Lenoir, with a look that caused a twinge of uneasiness to be felt by his companion, "for woe betide the man that plays me false."
"No fear of this man--man, I call him, but he is in appearance at least little more than a lad, although he was travelled all over the world."
Here Markby arose to move away.
"Stop a bit," said Lenoir. "I have forgotten to ask rather an important detail."
"What is it?"
"The name of this fellow?"
"Jack Harkaway," was the reply.
CHAPTER XC.
MARKBY"S MISSIVE--ON THE WATCH!--"SMART FELLOW, MARKBY!"--MARKBY"S MYRMIDON--THE SPY"S MISSION.
The Englishman Markby was gone before Pierre Lenoir could question him further.
"Jack Harkaway?" exclaimed Lenoir; "I have heard that name before. Of course; I remember now. But Markby speaks of him as a lad. Why, the Harkaway that I remember must be a middle-aged man by now; besides, what little I knew of Harkaway then would not show him to be a likely man for my purpose."
Not long after this, as Lenoir was upon the point of rising and leaving the cafe, a commissionaire or public messenger came up at a run with a note in his hand.
"M"sieu Lenoir."
"_C"est moi._"
He took the note and found it to contain the following words, scribbled boldly by Markby--