Sergeant Gurden rose to depart. He had no influence, but some power. He understood a little of what the other man was driving at, the more so when—
“If this young man gets into trouble, I should like to know,” said Colonel Black, holding out his firm hand; “I should like to know very much indeed.”
“He is a rare pushful fellow, that Fellowe,” said the sergeant severely. “He gets to know the upper classes in some way that I can’t understand, and I dare say he has wormed himself into their confidence. I always say that the kitchen is the place for the policeman, and when I see a constable in the drawing-room I begin to suspect things. There is a great deal of corruption—” He stopped, suddenly realizing that he himself was in a drawing-room, and that corruption was an ugly and an incongruous word.
Colonel Black accompanied him to the door.
“You understand, sergeant,” he said, “that this man—Fellowe, did you call him?—may make a report over your head or behind your back. I want you to take great care that such a report, if it is made, shall come to me. I do not want to be taken by surprise. If there is any charge to answer I want to know all about it in advance. It will make the answering ever so much easier, as I am a busy man.”
He shook hands with the sergeant and saw him out of the house.
Sergeant Gurden went back to the station with a brisk step and a comforting knowledge that the evening had been well spent.
III
An Adventure in Pimlico
In the meantime our constable had reached a small tavern in the vicinity of Regent Street.
He entered the bar and, ordering a drink, took a seat in the corner of the spacious saloon. There were two or three people about; there were two or three men drinking at the bar and talking—men in loud suits, who cast furtive glances at every newcomer. He knew them to be commonplace criminals of the first type. They did not engage his attention: he flew higher.
He sat in the corner, apparently absorbed in an evening paper, with his whisky and soda before him scarcely touched, waiting.
It was not the first time he had been here, nor would it be the first time he had waited without any result. But he was patient and dogged in the pursuit of his object.
The clock pointed to a quarter after ten, when the swing-doors were pushed open and two men entered.
For the greater part of half an hour the two were engaged in a low-voiced consultation. Over his paper Frank could see the face of Sparks. He was the jackal of the Black gang, the man-of-all-trades. To him were deputed the meanest of Black’s commissions, and worthily did he serve his master. The other was known to Frank as Jakobs, a common thief and a pensioner of the benevolent colonel.
The conversation was punctuated either by glances at the clock above the bar or at Sparks’ watch, and at a quarter to eleven the two men rose and went out.
Frank followed, leaving his drink almost untouched.
The men turned into Regent Street, walked a little way up, and then hailed a taxi.
Another cab was passing. Frank beckoned it.
“Follow that yellow cab,” he said to the driver, “and keep a reasonable distance behind, and when it sets down, pass it and drop me farther along the street.”
The man touched his cap. The two cabs moved on.
They went in the direction of Victoria, passed the great station on the left, turned down Grosvenor Road on the right, and were soon in the labyrinth of streets that constitute Pimlico.
The first cab pulled up at a big gaunt house in a street which had once been fashionable, but which now hovered indescribably between slums and shabby gentility.
Frank saw the two men get out, and descended himself a few hundred yards farther along on the opposite side of the street. He had marked the house. There was no difficulty in distinguishing it; a brass plate was attached to the door announcing it to be an employment agency—as, indeed, it was.
His quarry had entered before he strode across towards the house. He crossed the road and took a position from whence he could watch the door.
The half-hour after twelve had chimed from a neighbouring church before anything happened.
A policeman on his beat had passed Frank with a resentful sidelong glance, and the few pedestrians who were abroad at that hour viewed him with no less suspicion.
The chime of the neighbouring church had hardly died away when a private car came swiftly along the road and pulled up with a jerk in front of the house.
A man descended. From where he stood Frank had no difficulty in recognizing Black. That he was expected was evident from the fact that the door was immediately opened to him.
Three minutes later another car came down the street and stopped a few doors short of the house, as though the driver was not quite certain as to which was his destination.
The newcomer was a stranger to Frank. In the uncertain light cast by a street lamp he seemed to be fashionably dressed.
As he turned to give instructions to his chauffeur, Fellowe caught a glimpse of a spotless white shirtfront beneath the long dark overcoat.
He hesitated at the foot of the steps which led to the door, and ascended slowly and fumbled for a moment at the bell. Before he could touch it the door opened. There was a short parley as the new man entered.
Frank, waiting patiently on the other side of the road, saw a light appear suddenly on the first floor.
Did he but know, this gathering was in the nature of a board meeting, a board meeting of a company more heavily financed than some of the most respected houses in the City,
