“You let me go,” whined his prisoner, “or I’ll ’ave the perlice on yer.”
“I think not, little man,” said Drummond quietly. “Anyway I’ll chance it. Now who told you to watch this house?”
“I ain’t watching it, governor: strite I ain’t.”
His shifty eyes were darting this way and that, looking for a way of escape.
“I’m an honest man, I am, and—oh! Gawd, guv’nor, lemme go. You’re breaking my arm.”
“I asked you a question, you little swine,” said Drummond. “And if you don’t answer it, I will break your arm. And that thing you call a face as well. Now, who told you to watch this house?”
“A bloke wot I don’t know,” answered the man sullenly. “ ’E promised me ’arf a quid if I did wot ’e told me.”
“And what did he tell you to do?”
“Foller that there gent if he went out.” He pointed at Sinclair with a grimy finger. “Foller ’im and mark down where ’e went to.”
“And how were you to recognise me?” asked Toby.
“ ’E showed me a photer, ’e did. A swell photer.”
For a moment or two Sinclair stared at the man in amazement: then he crossed over to a writing-table in the corner.
“Well, I’m damned,” he muttered, as he opened a big cardboard cover with a photographer’s name printed on it. “I’ll swear there were six here yesterday, and there are only five now. Was that the photograph he showed you?”
He held one up in front of the man.
“That’s it, governor: that’s the very one.”
“There is a certain atmosphere of rapidity about this,” murmured Drummond, “that appeals to me.”
He thoughtfully contemplated his captive.
“Where were you to report the result of what you found out?” he went on. “Where were you going to meet him, to get your half-quid?”
“Down at the Three Cows in Peckham, guv’nor: tonight at nine.”
I gave a little exclamation, and Drummond glanced at me inquiringly.
“Not now,” I said. “Afterwards,” and he nodded.
“Listen here, little man,” he remarked quietly. “Do you want to earn a fiver?”
“You bet yer life I do, sir,” answered the other earnestly.
“Well, if you do exactly what I tell you to do, you shall. This gentleman whose photo you have seen is shortly going out. He is going to lunch at Hatchett’s in Piccadilly. After lunch he will take a little walk in the Park, and after that he will return here. He will probably dine at the Berkeley. At nine o’clock tonight you will be in the Three Cows at Peckham, and you will report this gentleman’s movements to the man who promised you half a quid. If you do that—exactly as I have told you—you can come back here tomorrow morning about this time and you’ll get a fiver.”
“You swear there ain’t no catch, guv’nor?” said the other.
“I swear there’s no catch,” said Drummond quietly.
“Right, sir, I’ll do it. Is that all you want with me now?”
“Yes: clear out. And don’t make any mistake about what you’ve got to do.”
“Trust me, sir.”
He touched a finger to his forehead and dodged out of the room.
“A distinct air of rapidity,” repeated Drummond thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’ll do it.”
“How did you know he was watching the house?” I asked curiously.
“It stuck out a yard,” he answered. “He was on the pavement when I came here an hour ago, and he’s not a Clarges Street type. What was it hit your fancy over the Three Cows?”
“The real driver of the taxi that followed us last night was drugged in a Peckham pub by a man he didn’t know. Presumably it was the Three Cows.”
“Then possibly we shall meet the man who followed you last night at nine o’clock this evening. Which will be one step up the ladder at any rate.”
He picked up his hat and lit a cigarette.
“By the way, what’s the number of your house?”
“3-B. It’s about ten doors down towards Piccadilly.”
And suddenly he gave a grin of pure joy.
“Is it possible, my jovial bucks,” he cried, “that once again we are on the warpath? That through the unpleasant object who has lately honoured us with his presence we shall be led to higher and worthier game? Anyway we can but baptize such a wonderful thought in a Martini or even two.”
We followed him down the stairs, and Toby smiled as he saw the look on my face.
“It’s all right, old man,” he remarked. “He’s always like this.”
“And why not, forsooth?” boomed Drummond, waving his stick joyfully in the air. “Eat, drink and be merry. … Don’t you agree with me, sir?”
He stopped suddenly in front of a complete stranger, who stared at him in blank amazement.
“Who the devil are you, sir?” he spluttered. “And what do you mean by speaking to me?”
“I liked your face,” said Drummond calmly. “It’s the sort of face that inspires confidence in canaries and white mice. Good morning: sorry I can’t ask you to lunch.”
“But the man is mad,” I murmured helplessly to Toby as we turned into Piccadilly.
“There is generally method therein,” he answered, and Drummond smiled.
“He knows not our ways, Toby,” he remarked. “But judging by appearances you’re evidently the important one, Stockton. That one only stuck out a foot.”
“Do you mean to say that that man you spoke to was on the lookout for me?” I stammered.
“What the dickens did you think he was doing? Growing watercress on the pavement?”
He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.
“Yes, Toby,” he went on. “I have distinct hopes. Matters seem to me to be marching well. And if we adopt reasonable precautions this afternoon it seems to me that they may march even better this evening under the hospitable roof of the Three Cows.”
He turned in to Hatchett’s.
“We may as well conform to the first part of the programme at any rate. And over some oysters we’ll discuss the first move.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“How to get you two fellows to my house without your being followed. Because I feel that for any
