He remembered that long conversation which Lyne and he had had on the morning of Sam's release from prison and the plannings which had followed.
He could not know that his hero was lying, and that in his pique and hurt vanity he was inventing grievances which had no foundation, and offences which had never been committed.

He only knew that, because of the hate which lay in Thornton Lyne's heart, justifiable hate from Sam's view, the death of this great man had been encompassed.
He walked aimlessly westward, unconscious of and uncaring for his shadower, and had reached the end of Piccadilly when somebody took him gently by the arm.

He turned, and as he recognised an acquaintance, his thick lips went back in an ugly snarl.
"It's all right, Sam," said the plain-clothes policeman with a grin.
"There's no trouble coming to you.

I just want to ask you a few questions." "You fellows have been asking questions day and night since--since that happened," growled Sam.
Nevertheless, he permitted himself to be mollified and led to a seat in the Park.
"Now, I'm putting it to you straight, Sam," said the policeman.

"We've got nothing against you at the Yard, but we think you might be able to help us.