Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre of the street and staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and accosted him.
“You are an Englishman,” I said.
“What if I am?” he asked with a most villainous scowl.
“May I ask what your name is?”
“No, you may not,” said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often the best.
“Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?” I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
“What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I insist upon an answer!” said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a tiger. I have
