I found by accident that I
was not the only American in London who was over here in search of you.
This afternoon I overheard part of a plot in a cafe in Regent Street
between two men, strangers to me, but who had both apparently made up
their minds that this particular paper was worth a little more than your
life. From them I heard your address. Your valet must be in their pay,
for they knew exactly your movements for the night. I heard them plan to
come here, and I knew what the end of that would be. I determined to
anticipate them. It was not out of any feeling for you, but simply
because if the paper got into their hands my cause was lost. So I came
on here to warn you, but I had scarcely entered your room before I was
aware that some one who had come with very different intentions was
already here. We waited--I in the sitting-room, he in that
bedroom--waited for you. I pretended to be unconscious of his existence.
He seemed to be content to ignore mine. While I was wondering how I
should warn you, the telephone bell rang. I answered it, and it was you
who spoke. Then I had the idea of carrying on some imaginary
conversation with you, which would induce the man who was listening to
go away.
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