They set down their empty glasses. Jocelyn Thew rose regretfully to his
feet.

"I fear," he said, "that I must tear myself away. We shall meet again, I
trust. And, Mr. Brightman, a word with you. If you are in town for a
holiday, if you have no business to worry you just at present, why not
practise on me for a time? Watch me. Find out the daily incidents of my
life. See what company I keep, where I spend my spare time--you know--and
all the rest of it. I can assure you that although I am not the great
criminal you fancy me, I am a most interesting person to study. Take my
advice, Mr. Brightman. Keep your eye upon me."

They watched him on the way to the door--a little languid but exceedingly
pleasant to look upon, exceedingly distinguished and prepossessing. A look
of half unwilling admiration crept into Brightman's face.

"Whatever that man really may be," he declared, "he is a great artist."

The swing door leading from the room into the cafe was pushed open, and a
woman entered. She stood for a moment looking around until her eyes fell
upon Jocelyn Thew. Crawshay suddenly gripped the detective's arm.

"Is there anything for us in this, my friend?" he whispered. "Watch Jocelyn
Thew's face!"




CHAPTER XVII