"Drive slowly," I told him. "I think we shall be followed."

And I was right; in a few minutes there were two cars dogging our
wheel-tracks. I had no doubt concerning the Rhamda; but I couldn't
understand the other. At No. 288 Chatterton Place we stopped and I
alighted. The Rhamda's car passed, then the other. Neither
stopped. Both disappeared round the corner. I took the numbers;
then I went into the house. In about a half hour a car drew up at
the curb. I stepped to the window. It was the car that had tracked
the Rhamda's. The stubby individual stepped out; without ceremony
he ran up the steps and opened the door. It was a bit
disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain and blunt--and
honest.

"Well," he said, "where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?"

"That," I answered, "is a question for both of us. Who are you,
and what do you want? Where is Watson?"

Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.

"My name is Jerome," he said simply. "Has something happened to
Watson? Who are you?"

We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the
other room. "In there," I said. "My name is Wendel."

He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his
forehead.