"Yes, but why?" I asked, as we strolled together under the trees.

"I want to tell you some-zing, mee-ster. I no Arabe--I Senos, from Huacho."

"From Huacho!" I gasped quickly.

"Yees. My dead master he English--Sir Digby Kemsley!"

"Sir Digby!" I cried. "And you were his servant. You knew this man Cane--why, you were the man who heard your master curse the man who placed the deadly reptile against his face. You made a statement to the police, did you not?" I asked frantically.

"Yees, Mee-ster Royle--I did! I know a lot," he replied in his slow way, stalking along in the short breeches, red velvet jacket, and fez of an Oriental.

"You will tell me, Senos?" I said. "You will tell me everything?" I urged. "Tell me all that you know!"

He grinned in triumph, saying:

"I know a lot--I know all. Cane killed my master--killed him with the snake--he and Luis together. I know--I saw. But the Englishman is always great, and his word believed by the commissary of police--not the word of Senos. Oh, no! but I have followed; I have watched. I have been beside Cane night and day when he never dream I was near. I tell the young lady all the truth, and--ah!--she tell him after I beg her to be silent."

"But where is Cane now?" I asked eagerly. "Do you know?"

"The 'Red' Englishman--he with Madame Petre and Luis--he call himself Ali, the Indian."

"Where? Can you take me to them?" I asked. "You know there is a warrant out for their arrest?"

"I know--but----"

"But what?" I cried.

"No, not yet. I wait," he laughed. "I know every-ting. He kill my master; I kill him. My master be very good master."

"Yes, I know he was," I said.

"That man Cane--very bad man. Your poor young laidee--ah? She not know me. I know her. You no say you see me--eh? I tell every-ting later. You go Ostend; I meet you. Then we see them."

"At Ostend!" I cried. "Are they there?"

"You go Ostend to-morrow. Tell me your hotel. Senos come--eh? Senos see them with you. Oh! Oh!" he said in his quaint way, grinning from ear to ear.

I looked at the curious figure beside me. He was the actual man who had heard the dying cries of Sir Digby Kemsley.

"But, tell me," I urged, "have you been in London? Do you know that a young lady died in Cane's apartment--was killed there?"

"Senos knows," he laughed grimly. "Senos has not left him--ah, no! He kill my master. I never leave him till I crush him--never!"

"Then you know, of what occurred at Harrington Gardens?" I repeated.

"Yes, Senos know. He tell in Ostend when we meet," he replied. "You go to-morrow, eh?" and he looked at me anxiously with those dark, rather blood-shot eyes of his.

"I will go to-morrow," I answered without hesitation; and, taking out my wallet I gave him three notes of a hundred francs each, saying:

"This will pay your fare. I will go straight to the Grand Hotel, on the Digue. You will meet me there."

"And the laidee--eh? She must be there too."

"Yes, Miss Shand will be with me," I said.

"Good, sare--very good!" he replied, thrusting the notes into the inner pocket of his red velvet jacket. "I get other clothes--these only to sell things," and he smiled.

I tried to induce him to tell me more, but he refused, saying:

"At Ostend Senos show you. He tell you all he know--he tell the truth about the 'Red' Englishman."

And presently, after he had refused the drink I offered him, the Peruvian, who was earning his living as an Arab of North Africa, bowed with politeness and left me, saying:

"I meet you, Mee-ster Royle, at Grand Hotel in Ostend. But be careful neither of you seen. They are sharp, clever, alert--oh, ve-ry! We leave to-morrow--eh? Good!"

And a moment later the quaint figure was lost in the darkness.

An hour later, though past midnight, I despatched two long telegrams--one to Fremy in Brussels, and the other to Edwards in London.

Then, two days later, by dint of an excuse that I had urgent business in Ostend, I found myself with Phrida and Mrs. Shand, duly installed, in rooms overlooking the long, sunny Digue, one of the finest sea-promenades in Europe.

Ostend had begun her season, the racing season had commenced, and all the hotels had put on coats of new, white paint, and opened their doors, while in the huge Kursaal they played childish games of chance now that M. Marquet was no longer king--yet the magnificent orchestra was worth a journey to listen to.

On the afternoon of our arrival, all was gay and bright; outside the blue sea, the crowd of well-dressed promenaders, and the golden sands where the bathing was so merry and so chic.

But I had no eyes for the beauties or gaiety of the place. I sat closeted in my room with two friends, Fremy and Edwards, whom I introduced and who quickly fraternised.

A long explanatory letter I had written to Brussels had reached Fremy before his departure from the capital.

"Excellent," he was saying, his round, clean-shaven face beaming. "This Peruvian evidently knows where they are, and like all natives, wants to make a _coup-de-theatre_. I've brought two reliable men with me from Brussels, and we ought--if they are really here--to make a good capture."

"Miss Shand knows nothing, you say?" Edwards remarked, seated on the edge of my bed.

"No. This man Senos was very decided upon the point."

"He has reasons, no doubt," remarked the detective.

"It is just four o'clock," I remarked. "He has given me a rendezvous at the Cafe de la Regence, a little place at the corner of the Place d'Armes. I went round to find it as soon as I arrived. We're due there in a quarter of an hour."

"Then let us go, messieurs," Fremy suggested.

"And what about Miss Shand?" I asked.

The two detectives held a brief discussion. Then Edwards, addressing me, said:

"I really think that she ought to be present, Mr. Royle. Would you bring her? Prepare her for a scene--as there no doubt will be--and then follow us."

"But Senos will not speak without I am present," I said.