Some two hours after Paul Harley’s examination of Jones, the
ex-parlourmaid, a shabby street hawker appeared in the Strand, bearing a
tray containing copies of “Old Moore’s Almanac.” He was an ugly-looking
fellow with a split lip, and appeared to have neglected to shave for at
least a week. Nobody appeared to be particularly interested, and during
his slow progression from Wellington Street to the Savoy Hotel he smoked
cigarettes almost continuously. Trade was far from brisk, and the vendor
of prophecies filled in his spare time by opening car doors, for which
menial service he collected one three-penny bit and several sixpences.
This commercial optimist was still haunting the courtyard of the hotel
at a time when a very handsome limousine pulled up beside the curb and
a sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had been in the apartments
of Ormuz Khan must have recognized his excellency’s private secretary.
Turning to the chauffeur, a half-caste of some kind, and ignoring the
presence of the prophet who had generously opened the door, “You
will return at eight o’clock,” he said, speaking perfect and cultured
English, “to take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, as
I shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury station for
a parcel which will be awaiting me there.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the Hindu
walked into the hotel.
The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively upon
the pavement.
Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of Chancery
Lane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged into a maze of
courts with which he was evidently well acquainted. His bookselling
enterprise presently terminated, as it had commenced, at The Chancery
Agency.
Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly transformed
himself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his watch upon the
table before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in half an hour’s close
thinking.
His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was this time
beyond reproach. It was the course which logic dictated. Until he had
attempted the task earlier in the day, he could not have supposed it so
difficult to trace the country address of a well-known figure like that
of the Persian.
This address he had determined to learn, and, having learned it, was
also determined to inspect the premises. But for such a stroke of good
luck as that which had befallen him at the Savoy, he could scarcely have
hoped. His course now lay clearly before him. And presently, laying his
pipe aside, he took up a telephone which stood upon the dressing table
and rang up a garage with which he had an account.
“Hello, is that you, Mason?” he said. “Have the racer to meet me at
seven o’clock, half-way along Pall Mall.”
Never for a moment did he relax his vigilance. Observing every
precaution when he left The Chancery Agency, he spent the intervening
time at one of his clubs, from which, having made an early dinner, he
set off for Pall Mall at ten minutes to seven. A rakish-looking gray car
resembling a giant torpedo was approaching slowly from the direction of
Buckingham Palace. The driver pulled up as Paul Harley stepped into
the road, and following a brief conversation Harley set out westward,
performing a detour before heading south for Lower Claybury, a little
town with which he was only slightly acquainted. No evidence of
espionage could he detect, but the note of danger spoke intimately to
his inner consciousness; so that when, the metropolis left behind, he
found himself in the hilly Surrey countryside, more than once he pulled
up, sitting silent for a while and listening intently. He failed,
always, to detect any sign of pursuit.
The night was tropically brilliant, hot, and still, but saving the
distant murmur of the city, and ordinary comings and goings along the
country roads, there was nothing to account for a growing anxiety of
which he became conscious.
He was in gunshot of Old Claybury church tower, when the sight of a
haystack immediately inside a meadow gate suggested a likely hiding
place for the racer; and, having run the car under cover, Harley
proceeded on foot to the little railway station. He approached a porter
who leaned in the doorway. “Could you direct me to the house of his
excellency Ormuz Khan?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “If you follow the uphill road on the other
side of the station until you come to the Manor Park--you will see the
gates--and then branch off to the right, taking the road facing the
gates. Hillside--that’s the name of the house--is about a quarter of a
mile along.”
Dusk was beginning to fall and, although the nature of his proposed
operations demanded secrecy, he recognized that every hour was precious.
Accordingly he walked immediately back to the spot at which he had left
the car and, following the porter’s directions, drove over the line at
the level crossing immediately beyond the station, and proceeded up
a tree-lined road until he found himself skirting the railing of an
extensive tract of park land.
Presently heavy gates appeared in view; and then, to the right, another
lane in which the growing dusk had painted many shadows. He determined
to drive on until he should find a suitable hiding place. And at a
spot, as he presently learned, not a hundred yards from Hillside, he
discovered an opening in the hedge which divided the road from a tilled
field. Into this, without hesitation, he turned the racer, backing in,
in order that he might be ready for a flying start in case of emergency.
Once more he set out on foot.
He proceeded with caution, walking softly close to the side of the road,
and frequently pausing to listen. Advancing in this fashion, he found
himself standing ere long before an open gateway, and gazing along a
drive which presented a vista of utter blackness. A faint sound reached
his ear--the distant drone of a powerful engine. A big car was mounting
the slope from Lower Claybury Station.