To share an unspoken fear is akin to the knowledge of a common crime.
At nine o'clock I sought John Turner in his apartment in the Avenue D'Antan, almost within a stone's throw of the British Embassy.

There are some to whom one naturally turns in time of trouble and perplexity, while the existence of others who are equally important in their own estimation is at such moments forgotten.

Our fellows seem to move around us in a circle--some step out of the rank and touch us as they pass--one, if it please God, comes out and stands beside us.

John Turner had, I suppose, touched me in passing.

He was at breakfast when I was shown into his presence.
"You are looking fresh and well," he said, in his abrupt way, "so I suppose you are engaged in some mischief." "Not exactly.