"I assure you, I am not," Gurdon protested. "I am the enemy of no man. I
came here to night--"

Gurdon stopped in some confusion. How could he possibly tell this man why
he had come and what he had in his mind? The thing was awkward--almost to
the verge of absurdity.

"I quite see the quandary you are in," said the cripple, with a smile.
"Now, let me ask you a question. Do you happen to know a man by the name
of Mark Fenwick?"

The query was so straight and to the point that Gurdon fairly started.
More and more did he begin to appreciate the subtlety and cleverness of
his companion. It was impossible to fence the interrogation; it had to be
answered, one way or the other.

"I know the man by sight," he said; "but I beg to assure you that until
last night I had never seen him."

"That may be," the cripple said drily. "But you know him now, and that
satisfies me. Now, listen. You see what I have in my hand. Perhaps you
are acquainted with weapons of this kind?"

So saying, the speaker wriggled in his chair, and produced from somewhere
behind him a small revolver. Despite its silver plated barrel and ivory
handle, it was a sinister looking weapon, and capable of deadly mischief
in the hands of an expert. Though no judge of such matters, it occurred
to Gurdon that his companion handled the revolver as an expert should.