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Page 45
"Benson," he called, opening the library door. As the man came
along the hall: "I have written a note to Mr. Innes, my
secretary," he explained. "There it is, on the table. When the
district messenger, for whom you telephoned, arrives, give him
the parcel and the note. He is to accept no other receipt than
that of Mr. Innes."
"Very good, sir."
Harley took his hat and cane, and Benson opened the front door.
"Good day, sir," said the butler.
"Good day, Benson," called Harley, hurrying out to the waiting
cab. "Number 236 South Lambeth Road," he directed the man.
Off moved the taxi, and Harley lay back upon the cushions heaving
a long sigh. The irksome period of inaction was ended. The cloud
which for a time had dulled his usually keen wits was lifted. He
was by no means sure that enlightenment had come in time, but at
least he was in hot pursuit of a tangible clue, and he must hope
that it would lead him, though tardily, to the heart of this
labyrinth which concealed--what?
Which concealed something, or someone, known and feared as
Fire-Tongue.
For the moment he must focus upon establishing, beyond query or
doubt, the fact that Sir Charles Abingdon had not died from
natural causes. Premonitions, intuitions, beliefs resting upon a
foundation of strange dreams--these were helpful to himself, if
properly employed, but they were not legal evidence. This first
point achieved, the motive of the crime must be sought; and
then--the criminal.
"One thing at a time," Harley finally murmured.
Turning his head, he glanced back at the traffic in the street
behind him. The action was sheerly automatic. He had ceased to
expect to detect the presence of any pursuer. Yet he was
convinced that his every movement was closely watched. It was
uncanny, unnerving, this consciousness of invisible surveillance.
Now, as he looked, he started. The invisible had become the
visible.
His cab was just on the point of turning on to the slope of
Vauxhall Bridge. And fifty yards behind, speeding along the
Embankment, was a small French car. The features of the driver he
had no time to observe. But, peering eagerly through the window,
showed the dark face of the passenger. The man's nationality it
was impossible to determine, but the keen, almost savage
interest, betrayed by the glittering black eyes, it was equally
impossible to mistake.
If the following car had turned on to the bridge, Harley, even
yet, might have entertained a certain doubt. But, mentally
putting himself in the pursuer's place, he imagined himself
detected and knew at once exactly what he should do. Since this
hypothetical course was actually pursued by the other, Harley's
belief was confirmed.
Craning his neck, he saw the little French car turn abruptly and
proceed in the direction of Victoria Station. Instantly he acted.
Leaning out of the window he thrust a ten-shilling note into the
cabman's hand. "Slow down, but don't pull up," he directed. "I am
going to jump out just as you pass that lorry ahead. Ten yards
further on stop. Get down and crank your engine, and then proceed
slowly over the bridge. I shall not want you again."
"Right-oh, sir," said the man, grinning broadly. As a result,
immediately he was afforded the necessary cover, Harley jumped
from the cab. The man reached back and closed the door,
proceeding on his leisurely way. Excepting the driver of the
lorry, no one witnessed this eccentric performance, and Harley,
stepping on to the footpath, quietly joined the stream of
pedestrians and strolled slowly along.
He presently passed the stationary cab without giving any sign of
recognition to the dismounted driver. Then, a minute later, the
cab overtook him and was soon lost in the traffic ahead. Even as
it disappeared another cab went by rapidly.
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